


To be Loved by You

by TwisterMelody



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/pseuds/TwisterMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Too many times they had confessed themselves in the darkness, leaving it there, never to speak of it again.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>But this is different.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>This love deserves the light of day.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	To be Loved by You

Life has been a whirlwind for John Watson, so much so that he feels like he can barely catch his breath.

In the blink of an eye, it's time, and the world stops for a moment, whether he's ready or not.  
  
It's the 27th of January, and the hospital room is quiet. The fluorescent lights are shut off with only a small lamp in the corner casting an amber glow across the room. Mary lies on the hospital bed, looking utterly exhausted in her sleep from what John can see out of the corner of his eye. To be honest, his focus isn't on her at all, but on the tiny baby girl wrapped up in blankets of purple and white cradled in Sherlock's arms. So small and delicate, she seems to find comfort in Sherlock holding her.  
  
John hovers closely to the both of them, placing the palm of his hand a bit shakily on Sherlock's back in assurance as the little girl lets out a yawn. She peeks open her dark blue eyes seconds later, only to stare up in wonder at what must be a strange new world.  
  
Honestly, fatherhood never crossed his mind much. He was always too busy dealing with the dangers and perils and pitfalls that life tossed his way to even begin to think of that. But, here he is. The baby girl captivates his heart, but with everything that's happened in the last eight months or so, he hates that he has no choice but to have her caught up within this storm.  
  
Sherlock, the man who always has something to say, has been utterly silent most of the evening, standing as a sign of calm in John's sea of emotions. So the first time he speaks that evening, it almost catches him off guard entirely.  
  
He stands nearly statuesque in the middle of the room, staring down at the baby in his arms with his eyes slightly pinched. "Her name?"  
  
"Olivia," he answers softly.  
  
"I still say Sherlock Watson had a nice ring to it," Sherlock murmurs after a few moments.  
  
John can't help but let out a chuckle at that, idly wondering if he realizes the implications of his words.  
  
Holding the newborn in the crook of his left arm, Sherlock moves his right hand carefully to hover near her tiny pink fingers as though he's scared she'll break. She immediately grasps onto his long pointer finger, and John swears he can hear his breathing abruptly stop. Sherlock's lips tighten into a straight line for a fraction of a second, and his throat bobs. "She's beautiful, John," he says quietly.  
  
John glances between the two of them, a soft sort of peaceful smile growing on his face at the sight. "You think so?"  
  
"Of course," Sherlock says instantly. He pauses for a moment, drawing his lips inward before speaking softly. "Just like you."  
  
John's chest squeezes at his words.

* * *

Sherlock stops by the house the day Olivia is brought home, surprising John. He stands on the landing outside of the front door, his hands behind his back at a parade's rest, and he's rolling eagerly on the balls of his feet.

John is so overjoyed to see him, he nearly drags him in the house the moment he sees him. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I erm..." he trails off and coughs. "I've got something for the baby is all."  
  
John tilts his head to the inside of the house and opens the door wider. "Come on, then."  
  
Sherlock doesn't move. "Mary?"  
  
"Asleep," John tells him.  
  
Sherlock nods before stepping into the house. He's quiet as can be as he follows John to the nursery, and his eyes seem to be making one hundred deductions per second about the every minute detail of the house. Once in Olivia's bedroom, Sherlock's lips quirk upwards at the sight of the tiny infant, sleeping soundly on her back, her fingers twitching just so in her sleep. He stays like that for a moment before opening up his great coat, reaching into his inner pocket, and pulling out a small, disassembled and slightly tangled nursery mobile.  
  
John goes to open his mouth to speak, but stops himself. As Sherlock begins untangling the pieces, he just looks at the man in amazement and crosses his arms. He smiles, albeit a little sadly, and leans against the lilac wall of his daughter's room. Finally, after a few - surely for Sherlock - agonizing minutes of untangling and assembling, it's finished.   
  
After attaching it to its proper place on the crib, Sherlock moves to stand near John and clasps his hands behind his back once more. "It's important, isn't it? She should know."  
  
John's expression falters. "It doesn't matter to me if you don't, you know," he murmurs as the newborn sleeps on.   
  
Sherlock nods, and they look on to the mobile, watching the planets as they dance around the sun.

* * *

Outside, the sky is crystal clear, but the wind rattles the glass panes of the windows as a new storm approaches.  
  
"I'm glad I didn't lose you," Mary tells him softly she she turns off the her bedside lamp and crawls underneath the covers. She pushes back her short blonde hair and curls up close to his side, looping her arms around his. "It's good to have you here instead of at that dump." John stares resolutely up at the ceiling as she speaks. She kisses his shoulder. "I've missed you."  
  
All John can do is close his eyes and play it off as exhaustion.  
  
Mary moves one hand over his left shoulder. "I don't ever want to go through that again," she says, as though she's in a low budget drama film. "It hurt, you know."  
  
John scoffs, completely revolted at her, at the way her words crawl under his skin.  
  
"What?"  
  
He shakes his head and shifts in the bed, sitting upright as to peel her away from him. Outside, he can make out the incoming clouds in the night sky.  
  
"For God's sake," she huffs out as she flops over onto her back. "This is about _him_ again isn't it?"  
  
He swings his feet off the mattress, not bothering to so much as look at her as he stands and shuffles across the chilly wooden floor of the bedroom. He makes it to the bathroom door, yanks his dressing gown off its hanger, and ties it tightly around him as he goes to leave.  
  
She calls out after him. "John!" He stops with his hand on the doorknob and shuts his eyes in waiting. "I thought you'd forgiven me," she says.  
  
John can't lie, not about that. Never for that. He swallows before he leaves the room, shutting the door tightly behind him.

* * *

Fatherhood doesn't come naturally to John.

His neighbors even tell him it's normal, but he never expected it to feel like broken piece in a puzzle; it isn't a perfect fit. They babble on during their unwelcome visits. All he can do is grit his teeth, all the while wondering if they're just a facade as well.  
  
Little do they know, he has a facade of his own.  
  
Even the house he lives in has turned into a mask to the outside world. A happy little family is what everyone else sees, and John can hardly bare it. Sometimes, as he's lying in bed, he wonders if he's done the right thing by listening to Sherlock.  
  
_The baby_ , Sherlock kept reminding him, making sure she wasn't caught in the shadow of her mother's actions.  
  
In fact, she occupies most of his time, and he often finds himself itching to tell Sherlock every mundane thing about her, but he constantly decides against it. Sherlock has more important things to worry about than the dull goings on of his life.  
  
And without Sherlock there, God, is it dull.

* * *

In his nightmares, it all happens at once.  
  
Sherlock is on the edge of a building, his coat whipping in the wind behind him, and John is screaming until his lungs give out, _'Please, God, no.'_ Somewhere, John hears familiar laughter, that of a man and a woman, cackling manically. John swirls around as the sound grows louder, but he finds nothing. His heart is racing, thumping against his ribs as though its trying to break free. Suddenly, gunshots echo through the air, a body falls, and John's mind just freezes. He soldiers through and runs as fast as his feet will take him, cursing at the pavement below that stretches out forever in front of him. The world turns grey, the color draining out as he tries to scream. It's too late, though. He's always too late. A limp body lays in the street, covered in blood and riddled with bullet wounds, his lifeless eyes staring into nothing as the sky begins to pour. John only breaks when he falls, screaming out Sherlock's name.

John bolts upright in his bed. He's panting, sweating, and still in battle mode as he blinks himself alert. The room is nearly pitch black, only illuminated by the ghostly light of the outside world filtering in through his bedroom blinds. John dares to look at the other side of the bed where Mary sleeps peacefully with a relaxed smile on her face, and he instantly feels sick. _She's part of this_ , he reminds himself somewhere in the back of his head. He turns away to bury his face in his hands and breathe deeply at an ill attempt to calm himself. It only lasts a few minutes, of course, before he gives up.  
  
Even in his slumber, John can't outrace his worst fears. There is no escape from the sick twists of reality.  
  
He winds up in the kitchen, squinting at the clock and muttering at the 3 a.m. reading. He knows it's irrational, that it was just a horrible nightmare, but he needs to know that Sherlock is okay. Too many times in the past he'd been in this situation, waking up in the middle of the night in a panic, only to realize he was stuck in reality. It left invisible scars on his soul, still-healing wounds ripped open, betrayed by his own mind. Now, he has to convince his half-asleep self that this isn't one of those times. Blearily, he pulls his phone free from the charger on the counter, turning it on and sending off a text.  
  
_Busy?_  
  
While waiting for a reply he isn't even certain he'll get, he ends up in Olivia's room without even thinking about it. The lilac walls come to life under the glow of the warm nightlight sitting on the dresser. He peers down into the crib to find the infant sleeping soundly on her back, her arms laying upwards next to her head.  
  
_Look at you_ , he thinks fondly, _so innocent and carefree._  
  
He hopes it stays that way.  
  
John smiles softly and reaches into the crib, stroking one finger along the soft skin Olivia's tiny hand, and she instantly grasps tightly onto his finger. His smile turns sad as he blinks, realizing in the nearly three weeks to the day since Olivia was brought here, John hasn't spoken to Sherlock since. And now, at a frankly rude time, he has the audacity to send off a text based on a nightmare.  
  
_'Well you're hardly gonna need me around now that you've got a real baby on the way.'_  
  
John exhales heavily through his nose as his phone vibrates in his other hand.  
  
_\- Shouldn't you be asleep?_  
  
John half smiles, feeling relieved as he types out his reply.  
  
_Shouldn't you?_  
  
A corner of his mouth tugs upward at the message he gets in return.  
  
_\- I asked you first._  
  
John rolls his eyes and turns to Olivia. "You'd like him, I think," he says softly. Her mouth twists a bit at his voice. "Yeah, I think that's everyone's reaction to that," he tells her. He bends down and softly kisses her hand as he pulls his finger free of her grip. He gives her another once over before he leaves and finally settles on the sofa, phone in hand.  
  
_Then you should answer me first._  
  
\- _Far too busy to even begin to think about it. How's that saying go? I'll sleep when I'm dead._  
  
John's jaw automatically clenches, and he holds his phone a bit too tightly as he sinks into the sofa cushions.  
  
***  
  
The machines around him beeped and whirred as he sat at Sherlock's bedside in that damned hospital. Sherlock was out cold with too many medications running through his veins to even begin to name, and all he could do was stare at him as though he could disappear any moment. As a Doctor, he knew the muscles the bullet tore through, the tissue damage, the organ failure it could have caused. Most of all, he kept gravitating back to the mortality rate and how quickly Sherlock was nearly done for. His head would not stop spinning. His hands were laced tightly in his lap for self assurance that, no, that wasn't going to happen.  John's mind, however, was on overdrive.  He had little control over the nerves of his body as one of his legs anxiously bounced up and down. _Wake up,_ he thought, _come on, now.  
  
_ As if he heard his thoughts, a deep breath was drawn in between Sherlock's lips, immediately followed by a pained groan.  
  
John let out a sigh of relief. _Thank God._  
  
With difficulty, Sherlock willed his eyes open and began to lift his head off the pillow, only to have it raise two inches and fall back down like a rock. He frowned as he struggled to keep his tired, red rimmed eyes from falling shut, but it was a losing battle. He willed his head towards John. "Feels heavy," he muttered, half coherently.  
  
John reached forward and brushed away a bit of Sherlock's messy fringe back to where it belonged. "Morphine can do that," he murmured.  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
John's expression hardened, and he pulled away, letting his hand rest on Sherlock's shoulder. "I don't know," he answered after a moment, "and quite frankly, I don't care."  
  
Sherlock managed to open his eyes just a tiny fraction to look at him. The dark, heavy circles under them held unspoken regret. "You don't mean that," he said quietly.  
  
Silence passed over them. He _did_ mean that, and so much more. The woman he married didn't exist, and more importantly, she was willing to take everything away from John, more than willing to kill in cold blood and hurt him all over again. And God, did she ever. John glanced down to where his hand still rested against the pale bare skin of Sherlock's shoulder. The gleaming gold band he wore was a burden of promises broken; nothing more than a ring of lies. Without hesitation, he brought his hand up, slipped the band off, and sat it on Sherlock's bedside table.  
  
Sherlock had had followed his actions with his gaze, seemingly dismayed, and struggled against the morphine to try and sit up.  
  
"No," John said, firmly, easing him back down before he could get any further, "don't be an idiot, Sherlock. What you need to do now is rest."  
  
Another groan left Sherlock as he settled his head back down onto the cheap hospital pillow. "Funny," he muttered, tinged with sarcasm and a touch of hurt, "a few hours ago I could have sworn you were paying no attention to that fact."  
  
John swallowed. John felt as though he'd been kicked down into a well tonight with all that had happened, and it blinded him from the obvious. "Yeah, well." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "You're an idiot and I'm a prick. We settled, now?"  
  
Sherlock merely hummed with a hint of a smirk at his lips.  
  
"I am sorry," John said after a moment. He chewed over on his bottom lip, steeling himself. "Believe it or not," he began, his voice lowered in confession, "I very much prefer you to be alive, so will you please stop dying on me?"  
  
Sherlock, eyes closed, half smirked at the remark. "I'll do my best."  
  
"That's all I ask."  
  
John made himself comfortable in the stiff padded chair at Sherlock's bedside. Nurses came and went in a flurry, agitating Sherlock to no end, but putting John a little more at ease with the good vital readings. The lights were eventually turned off,  and the night passed on with the television playing reruns of mediocre sitcoms, though neither of them were paying attention. 

He could have sworn Sherlock was asleep when he spoke again. "You should be with her."  
  
Though he couldn't see, John still shook his head. In the dark, he reached out, placing his hand over Sherlock's in a promise. "I'm not leaving you."  
  
***  
  
He grimaces at the memory and tries for a new approach.  
  
_If you're too busy to sleep, shouldn't you be too busy to text me?_  
  
\- _I'm never too busy for you._  
  
The strange, silent building he'd only moved back into a month before had never felt so far from home.  
  
He ends up spending another two hours texting Sherlock before he eventually nods off. When he wakes a few hours later with a crick in his neck and Mary scrutinizing him from across the room, he can't even bring himself to give her an explanation. After all she's put him through, he realizes, he doesn't owe her something so trivial, or anything at all.

* * *

**Update**

_Sorry I've not been on much, but it's been hectic, to say the least._  
  
_I won't be posting any details._  
  
_Just know that for now, everyone is doing as well as can be expected.  
  
_ \-----  
How's the baby doing, mate?  
Mike Stamford  
  
Thank goodness. Sherlock had me worried about you.  
Molly Hooper  
  
Bring that baby girl around any time!!!  
Mrs. Hudson  
  
Pity. I was rather hoping for a romanticized mystery.  
Anonymous  
  
What?? That's it?? And when can I see my niece.??  
Harry Watson  
\-----

John peers up from his laptop at the commotion coming from the sofa where Mary sits. Olivia is in her arms, squirming around fussily.

Next to her, David holds out his arms. "Can I?" Mary smiles at him warmly before handing the growing infant over to him. He holds her up and starts cooing over everything about her. "Look at her little fingers!" he exclaims excitedly.

Mary looks at him with stars in her eyes. "Isn't she brilliant?"  
  
"She looks just like you Mary," he tells her. He turns to John and then back to Olivia. "Not a whole lot like John though, eh?"  
  
Mary flashes a quick glance to John and scratches the corner of her mouth. "Sure she does, you're just not paying enough attention," she insists.  
  
There's a niggling doubt planted in his mind, but he ignores it for the time being.

* * *

John feels like he's suffocating in the suburbs.

"For God's sake, John," Mary snaps at him one afternoon, "If you keep staring at your phone, I swear I'm going to shoot it."  
  
It's meant to be said with at least a bit of sarcasm, he knows, but John's eyes immediately snap up and glare daggers into her. She pauses for a moment, realizing exactly what she's said, and then rolls her eyes before walking out of the room, muttering. The nerve she hits is unlike anything else. John ends up biting the inside of his mouth to keep the heated, vitriol words within. The things he wants to say are a sharp edged knife, and Mary is walking on the balance of it.  
  
Across the room, Olivia starts making high pitched noises of amusement from her bassinet. John walks over and peers down with a sorry sort of look for having to hear that.  He smooths back her fine blonde hair that's just starting to curl at the edges.  
  
"What do you think, little one?"  
  
She gurgles at him and kicks up her socked feet enthusiastically. That answer is good enough for him, and he half smiles before reaching for his phone. _It's easier this way,_ he thinks, _than to come right out and say 'I miss you.'_ He shoots off a text to Sherlock without hesitation.  
  
_Got any cases? Any experiments? Anything?_  
  
It's mere minutes before he's yelling out a quick goodbye to Mary, pressing a kiss to Olivia's forehead, and heading for the nearest tube.  
  
It's mere seconds in Sherlock's presence before he feels like he can finally _breathe_.  
  
They end up at some club near nightfall, and John can't help but think he's far too old to be doing this as he sits at the bar. Sherlock, on the other hand, ends up as a chameleon in the crowd of excitable twenty-somethings in a pair of tight trousers, and a dark blue shirt unbuttoned far more than necessary, though John isn't about to complain. The music is blaring, the colored lights are flashing, and people are pairing off in droves as time passes. They're in there for what feels like hours, and John passes the time with a few drinks himself. Finally, from across the room, Sherlock catches his eye in a gesture of, _'I've got what we need, let's go._ ' He fights his way through the sea of drunkards to seek out Sherlock, only, he finds him very much not alone by the time he gets there.  
  
A tall man with tousled chestnut hair stands a little to closely to Sherlock for John's liking. He's younger. Fitter. Obviously more well off. One hand is propped up against the wall, and he's looking Sherlock up and down like he's a delicious dessert. The fingertips of his other hand are dancing Sherlock's arm in a way that could only mean one thing.   
  
Sherlock is gazing at the man as though he's some intriguing mystery.

John clenches his jaw as half moon indentions appear on his palms. All he can think is, _'No, no, no, **no**.'_  
  
He approaches them and coughs loudly. "Sherlock? You ready?"  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth, but the other man speaks before he has a chance. "Can't you see we're busy?"  
  
The man encircles Sherlock's wrist with his hand, and John is _fuming_ at the sight as a fire blazes somewhere in the back of his head, scorching his throat with anger. He glares at the man now, who's looking at Sherlock with a cheeky smile, darting his tongue out between his lips. One glance at Sherlock tells him the mystery is no more. "Let him go," he says, lowly.  
  
The man lets go of Sherlock's wrist and straightens his posture with a bit of a drunken wobble. He turns one foot to stare John down. "What's your problem, then?"  
  
He's sizing himself up, ready for a fight, and John's having none of it. He stands taller and pushes his shoulders back. He doesn't know where it comes from, that guttural possessive instinct in him, or why he chooses those words, but before he knows it, he's putting a hand in front of the man and saying, "He's with me."  
  
"What?"  
  
A long ago memory flares up as John lowers his voice. "I said," he growls, " _he's with me_."  
  
A light glimmers off of John's wedding band as the man looks down. He apparently draws his own conclusions, immediately throws his hands into the air, backing off. "Just as well," the man calls out as Sherlock is shrugging on his coat, halfway to the door, "doesn't seem like he's good for more than a fuck anyway."  
  
John doesn't even have a moment to pause. As soon as those words hit his ears, a bomb goes off in his mind and his chest heaves with fury. He spins, shoves past the laughing crowd, and yanks the man by his shirt without a second thought. The man stumbles, and John reaches around, twisting his arm with a force until the man yelps before he shoves him backwards against a table, his hand clenched in his shirt. John lets his fist collide with the bastard's jaw once, and then once more for good measure before letting him go, sending him crashing down to the rock hard floor with a couple of chairs clattering down on top of him.  
  
The club goes mostly quiet, save for some loud whispering among the crowd. John pays them no attention as he storms out, Sherlock trailing behind him.  
  
John's neck burns for quite a while after that, but they walk in comfortable silence. He doesn't want to talk about it, and Sherlock doesn't feel the need to.  
  
Sherlock sends off his results to the Yard via as he and John enjoy far too much alcohol at dinner. Later on as the night grows darker, they end up sitting alongside one another on the sofa in 221B. Sherlock laughs uncontrollably, and John would swear it's one of the most beautiful sounds he's heard all year. John props his socked feet up on the coffee table, and leans back into the sofa cushions. Finally, he feels like he's home.  
  
"How's your hand?" Sherlock asks from beside him.  
  
"Hmm? Oh, fine," he answers, flexing it.  
  
Sherlock reaches out, holding John's injured hand in his own. His knuckles are a bit tender, but it's to be expected. It was worth the wound, in his opinion. Sherlock lightly skims his fingers across John's knuckles in inspection, still holding it gently in his other hand. "It would seem so," he murmurs as he leans back as well.  
  
After it's been quiet a while, and the evening settles, he can't help but ask. "Would you have gone out with him?"  
  
Sherlock lowers his brow as if the very idea is absurd. "Of course not," he answers instantly. "He's not my type."  
  
He shifts his head against his shoulder, highly interested.  "And what _is_ your type?"  
  
He looks him up and down, marveling at how ridiculously delighted he looks at the moment. His curls are tousled, his shirt is unbuttoned more than usual, and his eyes have a light in them John hasn't seen what feels like forever. Sherlock doesn't answer, but he lets a smile play upon his lips, and John can't help himself from staring.   
  
After a while, Sherlock closes his eyes, and John finds himself doing the same.  
  
"Well," John says after a long silence, "I'm glad."  
  
"Are you?" Sherlock murmurs.  
  
"Mm. He seemed horrid. You deserve better than that."  
  
"And what is it that I deserve?"  
  
Sleepily, John lets his head come to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. "Everything," he breathes.  
  
He wakes at dawn just as the golden sunlight begins to filter into the room. He's warm, comfortable, and more at ease than he's been in nearly a year. There's the constant thump of a heart under his ear, the feel of expensive threads beneath his fingers, and an arm wrapped around his torso. It takes far too long to register where he is, and when he does, his eyes open wide and he freezes.  
  
This wasn't supposed to happen.  
  
Carefully, pulls his body upright and untangles himself from Sherlock's long limbs. Sherlock, to his credit, only frowns and rolls into a more comfortable position on the sofa before opening his eyes and squinting at him in sleepy confusion.  
  
"I, erm," John hesitates, trying to get his brain online, "I have to get back. Mary. All that."  
  
John's movements are a bit scrambled as he leaves Baker Street.  
  
If this had been before, it would have been different.

Now, it's all a bit messed up.  
  
It's a long way back to his house. He swallows hard and does his best to push those old feelings down as they come slipping out of the confines of his chest where he thought he'd locked them away. _I'm not in love with him_ , he thinks. He shakes his head and buries his face in his hands for the remainder of the tube ride.  
  
At the house, Mary is waiting for him on the sofa. A cup of coffee is sitting on the table that's long since gone cold. Mary has her robe wrapped tightly around her with her legs pressed up against her chest, and she's scowling at him something fierce.  
  
"Nice to see you had a _fun night out_ ," she spits.  
  
John stares for a moment, exhales, drops his jacket over his chair, and spends the next few hours lying in bed, wishing he were anywhere else.

* * *

"You never did apologize," Mary tells him during the late evening news.  
  
John is slowly nodding off. "Hmm?"  
  
"Staying out all night. With Sherlock."  
  
John doesn't know what else to say, so he lets out a slightly sarcastic, "Sorry."  
  
The sofa cushions shift as she crosses her arms."What was it for, then? Anything important? Or were you just..."  
  
"It was for a case," he says, unwavering.  
  
"All night?" The skepticism in her voice is thick enough to be cut with a knife.  
  
"Yeah," he answers, mildly, letting his eyes fall shut  
  
"You're a horrible liar."  
  
_Good thing you lie well enough for the entire city,_  he thinks.

* * *

John is up to his elbows in dirty nappies, soiled bibs, and foul smelling baby food. Nobody ever said parenthood was glamorous, but _Jesus_.

Olivia is crying in his ear, if you can call her wailing that, and Mary is gone again that night as has become the usual, out doing God knows what. To be honest, John would rather not know. The baby screams and cries as much as her little lungs will allow, turning red in the face as hot tears streak down her cheeks. John is doing everything to get her to calm down, but it's just not working, and he's at his wits end.  
  
Going for another approach, he flips his television to a music channel and gently bounces the baby girl along to the song. Her screams slowly but surely turn into whines, and then into babbles and sniffles as the tears dry from her face, and John feels utter relief. He sits on the sofa with her bundled up in his arms.  
  
"Is that all it takes to calm you down, a bit of music?" he muses.  
  
She's staring at him with curious, widened eyes like he's a miracle worker, and at the moment, he quite feels like one. Her tiny fingers twitch among the blankets as she lets out a hiccup. She squirms a bit more after that and fights sleep for a while longer before finally closing her eyes. _Finally_ , John thinks, completely exhausted. He reaches for the remote to switch it over to the news, but as he goes to do so, a familiar melody comes on that stops him dead in his tracks.  
  
***  
  
John was laughing.  
  
Sherlock was leading, one hand intertwined with John's, the other resting comfortably on his waist.  
  
The curtains had been shut tightly that night as to not let any city lights drift into the living room. The furniture, along with the rest of the clutter of the flat, had been pushed up against the walls to make room for their movements. Hours ago, when it had all started, there were more than a few choice words from John as they stumbled and tripped over each other. But now, as the new song began, John let his thumb swipe over the front of Sherlock's shoulder, and he was laughing.  
  
"Seriously, Sherlock?" he laughed, lighthearted. "You don't know who  _Elvis_ was?"  
  
Sherlock frowned in a puzzled manner as they turned in step. "Was he important?"  
  
John glanced up at him, amused. "Depending on who you ask," he replied.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and they continued on, dancing through the room as the soft music filled the background. "I know nothing about the man personally. Doesn't matter, it's all trivia, really. I've always liked this song, though," he tells him. "Perfect for waltzes."  
  
"And for weddings," John pointed out as they turned again, eyes locked.  
  
John didn't quite know what to think but he could have sworn he noticed an edge of sadness burned around Sherlock's gaze as he glanced away. "I suppose it is." Sherlock's hand tightened on his waist. "But this won't be at the wedding, remember?"  
  
"Yeah," he beamed, "I can't wait to hear your song."  
  
" _Your_ song," he corrected. "I think you'll find what I've written for you to be good. Maybe better than your beloved _Elvis_ ," he mocked lightly as he rolled his eyes again.  
  
"I find you better than anyone," he said quietly.  
  
The deep, velvety baritone coming over the speakers seemed to sweep them both within it, warming the glow of the room with every uttered syllable. They danced along for the first time in perfect unison, somehow managing to move in even closer to each other all the while.  
  
"Do you?" Sherlock asked him, eyes half lidded, focused.  
  
A fondness swept over John as he whispered, "I do."  
  
Their bodies were practically pressed up against each other in a new kind of closeness.  As the song neared its close, John tightened his grip, and the next thing he knew, he was being dipped in the safety of Sherlock's arms, barely an inch of space between them. John flicked his gaze to Sherlock's lips before slowly dragging his own eyes upward. Sherlock's softer, unblinking eyes practically burned into John, and his throat suddenly felt dry as only their breathing filled in the background silence.  
  
It was only when Mrs. Hudson walked in that the spell was broken, and they awkwardly clambered away from each other, nearly tripping in the process.  
  
***  
  
It's always pointless to think, ' _What if...?_ ' but it's the constant question on his mind, one he's not sure he wants to know the answer to.  
  
Carefully, he maneuvers himself to reach for his phone on the end table, having to pause for a bit when Olivia tries to turn in her sleep. Phone in hand, he sends out the first question on his mind to Sherlock -  
  
_You okay?_  
  
He sits on the sofa for a long time that night before a reply finally comes, and by that time, his left arm has gone numb from holding Olivia, but he doesn't dare move. They carry on a conversation about odds and ends, and the pressure that has been sitting on his chest eases off a little.

* * *

A polar winter melts into chilly spring.  
  
The world had frozen over, and no amount of sunlight could fix the damage that was done.

* * *

The dinner table is large enough for royalty as their neighbors all crowd around stuffing their faces to no end. They joke with each other and make simple small talk, and honestly, John is lucky that he hasn't fallen asleep right then and there. It's all so incredibly boring, and he doesn't understand why he ever wanted to live this way.  
  
Mary swats at his leg beneath the table, letting him know he's not paying as much attention as she'd like him to. In the middle of laughter, she turns to him briefly. Her sharp eyes seem to say, 'Work with me, here.' but it's of no use. John shakes his head slightly, turning his attention back to Olivia. She's growing so quickly, and the moment she lets out a tiny laugh, his world feels alright for a second. More than alright, really. She's the only person in the entire room he cares about.  
  
She stretches her little arms up and outward towards his face. He reaches out, and she instantly grabs onto his finger just as a violent tremor shakes through his left hand. The baby smiles at him, her heart full of innocence and love, and he tries his best to push his feelings down as he gives her a bittersweet sort of smile.

* * *

A furious knock at the front door one afternoon reveals Sherlock with a crazed sort of excited look in his eyes.  
  
"Sher-"  
  
"John!" he exclaims. "I need your doctor's kit."  
  
John squints at him. "What? Why?"  
  
"I'm leaving for a case across the country, and, there could possibly be a few consequences to arrive."  
  
John considers him for a moment. "You're planning on getting yourself hurt?"  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes almost immediately. "No one _plans_ to get hurt, John."  
  
Mary is at the back of the house with Olivia, and surprisingly, she hasn't reacted to all of the commotion. John is thankful for small miracles. Sherlock and Mary haven't spoken a word to each other since Sherlock stepped off the plane and John pulled him into a hug with Mary saying tightly, ' _We just can't get rid of you, can we?_ '  
  
John looks at Sherlock's eager face, and his tongue darts out to swipe over his lips in a flash as he glances backwards into the house.  
  
"When are you leaving?" John asks.  
  
"As soon as possible."  
  
"Dangerous?"  
  
"Undoubtedly so." Sherlock pauses for a moment before adding, "So are you coming or not?"  
  
John throws his kit into an already packed bag, yells out a goodbye to Mary, and he's out the door and into a cab with Sherlock at his side in under five minutes.  
  
The countryside is gorgeous, but that's not the focus of this getaway. The hotel is more of a cozy little cottage set in the wilderness, not that he can really enjoy it for the time being. For a couple of days, it's all business as usual, back to how it had been before. Sherlock is hot on the trail of a few serial murderers and John is right there at his side, as it should be. The night they track them down, fight their way against them, and make a narrow escape, John feels like victorious and Sherlock is downright giddy. Sherlock's words ring true to John's ears. _Just the two of us against the rest of the world!_

"Did - did you see -" Sherlock can't even finish his sentence because he's laughing so hard as they walk into the room.  
  
"Hush, you're going to wake the entire place!" John hisses, with trills of mirth trailing after his words. It happens to be well past two in the morning and he's making quite the ruckus. Sherlock, however, is too far gone and is laughing so hard there are tears coming out of his eyes as he flops backwards onto the lone double bed, clutching at his stomach. John finds it ridiculous and tosses a pillow at his head to get him to quiet down, but it has no effect. "Sherlock," he laughs, as the sound is contagious, "shhh."  
  
Sherlock's higher pitched laugh is echoing throughout the room at this point. As a last ditch effort, John grabs the remaining pillow and climbs astride Sherlock without thinking. He swats at him and Sherlock tosses the offending item to the floor and tries to wrestle John off in the midst of his giggle fit, but John, laughing all the while, takes his wrists in his hands and pins him down to the mattress.  
  
It gets very quiet, very quickly.  
  
Beneath him, Sherlock's lips are parted, his curls are plastered against the blankets, and his eyes are as dark and focused as John's ever seen them. They're like magnets, drawing him in. Quickly, he becomes aware that his breathing is escalating, and that Sherlock's pulse is racing beneath his fingertips. They end up stuck in a stalemate before an angry, pounding knock at the door makes them scramble away.  
  
"Shut it in there, will ya?!" the annoyed voice hollers through the door.   
  
Sherlock has already made his way off the bed and into the bathroom by the time the voice at the door trails off. John pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.  
  
_What the hell am I doing?_  
  
Once Sherlock is out, John quickly shuffles into the bathroom and changes into his pajamas as well, opting for a shower in the afternoon, assuming he'll actually get to sleep in a bit. He doesn't get much of that these days. Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed and staring blankly at the television when John comes out. Immediately, the scrapes, cuts, and bruises along Sherlock's arms jump out at him. Realizing he didn't make it through unscathed, John putters around the room, grabs his doctor's kit, and sits next to him.  
  
"Let me see?" he asks as he softly touches Sherlock's arm with his fingertips, awaiting permission. Sherlock holds his arms out for inspection, and John gets to work. It's all routine by now with as many messes as they've gotten themselves into.  
  
"You have missed this, haven't you? The danger?"  
  
John smirks. "I can find danger anywhere, Sherlock," he informs him as he works. The injuries he wears aren't too bad, thankfully, but they're plentiful in numbers thanks to the elements of the wilderness. He shakes his head fondly as he sanitizes a particularly deep cut on his bicep. "What would you do without me?"  
  
"Haven't the faintest."  
  
"Glad I came along, then?"  
  
"I'm always glad to have you with me," he answers quietly.  
  
The television plays out an infomercial, and they end up gabbing about how ridiculous the product is as John finishes what he can see.  
  
"Alright," John says as he tugs at the sleeve of Sherlock's t-shirt, "off."  
  
Sherlock's mouth goes into a line, and his shifts sideways on the bed so he's directly facing John. He hesitates a moment before peeling his shirt off, and John methodically inspects and cleans up the wounds to his satisfaction.  
  
"Your back?" he asks.  
  
"No."  
  
John sighs. "I'm almost done, but I need to see if -"  
  
"No," he says again, and John doesn't fight against it. As Sherlock turns away to put on his shirt, though, John understands.   
  
He stares at the sight in confusion and whispers, "Sherlock, what..."  
  
"It's fine. It's nothing," he answers too quickly as he moves.  
  
It's not quick enough, though, as John has gotten the full view. All across the skin and muscles of his back, scars plague his skin, and John's quite certain they hadn't been there before. They criss-cross in different forms. Some are raised and pink, others are deep, as if sections of the flesh are missing. The smaller ones have a more silvery tone to them. The sheer amount, however, makes John feel sick. Sherlock slips his shirt on in record breaking speed.  
  
"What happened?" John asks as soon as he thinks he can trust his voice. It croaks a bit at the end, and Sherlock doesn't answer.   
  
"Ancient history, John," Sherlock says as he starts to get up.  
  
John grasps onto Sherlock's wrist, gently. They stay like that for a long moment. "Who did this to you?"  
  
Sherlock lets out a humorless laugh and begins pacing across the floor, anxious. "Far too many people to name."  
  
"Sherlock," he says gently.  
  
Sherlock's lips twist in an unnatural way as he strides back and forth across the length of the room. I erm..." he trails off, playing with the hem of his shirt, "I acquired those while I was... away," he finishes.  
  
He feels sick. He feels angry. Mainly, though, he feels guilty. He should have paid more attention, he should have asked questions, and as a Doctor for God's sake, he should have _noticed_. It doesn't do him any good now, though. He doesn't know what to say, but he has to say _something_. "You never told me," he says softly.  
  
"Didn't want you to worry," Sherlock admits. He crosses the room, and begins fiddling with John's doctor's kit in a rare sight of nervousness. "If you had come with me, back then," he tries, stumbling over his words, "or if I had contacted you, you would have been targeted far worse than I ever was." He audibly swallows. "That wasn't an option," he announces bitterly as he clicks the kit shut with far more force than necessary.  
  
John is speechless, completely and utterly speechless. He can't even look at Sherlock right now. "I'm sorry," he manages. "I didn't..." He trails off and tries to find the right words. They don't _do_ this, they don't _talk_ about things for this very reason - it's far too difficult for both of them. He hears Sherlock's feet shift towards him, and can feel his gaze on his skin. John clears his throat. "I didn't realize you were fighting your own war as well," he finally says as he dares to look Sherlock in the eye.  
  
Sherlock nods once, and then disappears into the bathroom for a long while, and John doesn't question it. He lets him be as he berates himself for not knowing, for not observing, for everything, really.  John is already laying in bed by the time Sherlock slips under the covers next to him. For a long time, it's silent, minus the sounds of their breathing and the light wind sweeping across the outer walls of the room. John is nearly asleep when Sherlock speaks again.  
  
"Are you still upset with me?"  
  
He worries the fabric of the sheets between his fingers. The two years that Sherlock was gone, well. Those were possibly the worst two years of his life. He thinks about the sleepless nights, the tears shed, the sheer amount of emptiness he felt as he held on to a miracle he thought would never come true. He lets out a soft sigh. "It still _hurts_ , Sherlock." He tells him. "But... I understand." He shifts his head on the pillow to face him. "And for the record, I'm glad you're here."  
  
Sherlock coughs. "Would you have still forgiven me if we hadn't ended up in -"  
  
"Yeah," John immediately answers, cutting him off. "I think I already had."  
  
Sherlock huffs out of a laugh and rubs absently at his face. "Could've fooled me," he mutters.  
  
John chuckles. "Do you blame me? I mean, what would you have done if it'd been the other way around?"  
  
Sherlock goes quiet for a long while at that. "Had our roles been reversed," Sherlock begins, "well."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I'd not have made it nearly as long."  
  
John feels heat behind his eyes at the gravity of his words, but he tries his best to blink it away. "What kept you going?"  
  
"Oh, the usual," he sighs. "London. Baker Street." He closes his eyes. "You, mostly."  
  
John doesn't sleep that night.

* * *

**Update**  
  
_Can't stay on here too long, but I want you all to know the baby is doing well. I mean,_  
_she's getting bigger, obviously, and she's healthy and happy, which is more than I can_  
_ask for. I'd post more about her, but I'd like to keep her out of the any spotlight. She's_  
_just a baby, and though I've been through enough for a lifetime, I don't wish any of that_  
_on her. I will say, though, she's started laughing... at everything I do. (shut up, Sherlock.)_  
  
_I can't type up too much, but I can honestly say that that last case took me by surprise._  
_The countryside was lovely, and Sherlock was great, too, tracking down those serial_  
_killers. Serial killers hiding in the woods, though. That's something you see in horror_  
_films rather than real life. We're both fine, though, save for a few cuts and bruises._  
  
_It was a nice sort of holiday, if you can really call tripping over yourself in the woods,_  
_looking for murderers. All went smoothly, though. Well, except for Sherlock nearly_  
_getting kicked out of the hotel at 2 a.m. for being loud enough to wake the entire place._  
  
_With as much time as we spend in hotels, you'd think he'd care to be more discreet by now._  
  
\-----  
*comment deleted*  
Harry Watson  
  
John...  
Mike Stamford  
  
Oh my goodness  
Molly Hooper  
  
Back to the romance I see.  
Anonymous  
  
*comment deleted*  
Harry Watson  
  
Shut up, Harry.  
John Watson  
  
I'm just telling you what it looks like.  
Harry Watson  
  
It does rather leave some implications, doesn't it?  
Anonymous  
  
I wasn't the only one making noise.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
For God's sake.  
John Watson  
  
*comment deleted*  
Harry Watson

* * *

"I've always wondered," Mary begins, flicking through her phone, "if something happened between you and him."  
  
John clenches his jaw. "Don't start," he cautions.  
  
"Honestly," she scoffs. "You mourned for him like a widower would. And then this," she says, holding up her phone, a page opened to his blog, "well, this is just kind of the final proof, isn't it? That something happened?"  
  
John's lip curls a bit at that. "Either way, it would be none of your business, would it?"  
  
Mary gives him a tight lipped sinister smile. "You're my husband. You _are_ my business."

* * *

Mary is gone for the weekend. John doesn't know where she is, or who she's with, and he doesn't ask. He and Sherlock sit on the sofa in the house late in the evening, and John is absentmindedly munching from the bowl of popcorn at his side. An old black and white film nears its end on the television, and as two of the main characters part ways, it triggers a memory in John's mind.  
  
"What were you going to tell me? Before you got on the plane?"  
  
Next to him, Sherlock shifts, barely able to move with a sleeping Olivia against his chest. He pulls her a little closer, his cheek nudging at her head. He lowers his eyes and blinks in rapid succession as he retracts his lips. John hasn't seen him look so uncomfortable since... well. Sherlock coughs awkwardly. "I told you."  
  
John shakes his head as the credits roll. "That's not what you wanted to say."  
  
Sherlock's throat bobs as he swallows. "It hardly matters now."  
  
John leaves it, for the time being, noticing the lines of distress along Sherlock's features. Now isn't the time, but at some point, he'll ask again. He grabs the remote and absentmindedly starts flipping through the channels in hopes of another movie. "I wish you hadn't shot him. Complicated things a bit," he says, idly. "Thought you were gone for a third time." The last part is more croaked out than anything, but if Sherlock has noticed, he doesn't mention it.  
  
John eventually settles on another classic when Sherlock finally speaks again. "He would have made calls, John," he says tightly. "You would have been in the line of fire as with Olivia. Your safety was compromised."  
  
"And I'm safe with her?" he asks, not even mentioning Mary's name.  
  
Sherlock's expression falters. "It's not you she wants to kill."  
  
John frowns.  
  
On Sherlock's lap, Olivia interrupts their conversation as she shuffles in her sleep as if she can't get into a comfortable position. He moves her just marginally, and she turns her head, essentially burying her face in Sherlock's chest. In her hands, there's a small plush bee that Sherlock had brought over for her, and she clutches it tightly as Sherlock smooths his hand over her fine curls.  
  
John feels a smile spread over his face at the sight of the two of them. It's the perfect opportunity, and he figures if Sherlock won't confess his words, then John might as well confess something of his own. He turns sideways on the sofa and props is head up with one hand, staring at them adoringly. "Did I ever tell you her middle name?" he prompts, to which Sherlock shakes his head. "Well, it's Scarlett." Sherlock's eyebrows lower in confusion. "I mean, it's sort of like Scott," John says quickly, hesitating, "the closest I could think of anyway."  
  
Sherlock freezes, and his usual stiff upper lip twists oddly, like he's trying to fight to keep words from slipping past it. "John, I..." he trails off and never quite finishes, instead choosing to hug the sleeping infant a little closer, an unreadable expression on his face.  
  
John criticizes himself for almost believing, back then, in the mask of indifference Sherlock wears for the world. He shakes his head slightly. "You lied to him, you know," John says. "Magnussen." Sherlock says nothing, so John finishes. He tilts his head to the side just so. "You're not a sociopath," he tells him.  
  
Sherlock turns his attention to the television. "What am I?"  
  
"A good man. A good friend. A bit of a dick sometimes, but then again, we all are."  
  
Sherlock nods slowly. "Is that all?"  
  
John sighs softly. "There's so much more to you than your mind, Sherlock, no matter what you want the world to believe." Sherlock turns to him with wide eyes, his lips parted slightly like a child who's been caught red handed. "Don't worry," he says lightly, "I won't go letting on."

* * *

A bit of spring cleaning is in order as he and Mary both putter around the house. However, John is soon frozen in his tracks. He can't peel his eyes away from the hateful thing when he finds it, hidden deep within their closet. The sleek cool metal is as deadly in looks as it must be in action. _This is it_ ,  _this is what used,_ he realizes, _this is what nearly took him away_. His jaw clenches with anger when Mary comes into the room.  
  
"I've been calling for you, didn't you hear me?"  
  
He doesn't turn around. "Why do you still have this?" he asks, staring at the gun among a box of junk.  
  
"In case I need it." Mary answers, tightly.  
  
He closes his eyes and leans heavily against a wall. "Why would you need it?" he prompts. "If you were putting your past behind, you'd let it go." She doesn't answer him, and he doesn't give her the time to do so. "I don't want this in the house," he says, his tone dangerously sharp. "Our daughter doesn't need to be anywhere _near_ this. I want it out. _Now._ "  
  
As he turns to her, Mary straightens her posture and rolls her shoulders back. Her head tilts slightly to the side as she scoffs. "You think I'm a danger to her? Seriously, my own child?" John's lips twitch in answering. Mary widens her stance, crosses her arms and looks John up and down before challenging him with, "You've still got your gun, I don't see how your past is any different from mine."  
  
The nerve she has is unbelievable, and John can't keep his voice calm anymore. He scowls at her with so much loathing it nearly radiates off him and fills the room. "Don't you _dare_ compare army life to anything you've done," he sneers.

* * *

"Wait," Sherlock hisses as he yanks John backwards with a force. His long arms are wrapped securely around his torso, and John's back is fully pressed up against Sherlock's front in the pitch black darkness of the night. Sherlock puts his lips next to John's ear. "We have to wait," he whispers.  
  
The soft puffs of breath against his skin are more than enough to send a violent shiver down his body.  
  
"Alright?"  
  
"Cold," John answers tightly, not trusting his own voice. He's glad it's a plausible lie, as they left in such a hurry that John couldn't grab his jacket, and it is freezing in the chilly spring night.  
  
"Let's go." And they were off.  
  
When all is said and done, and they're at the squad car, John swears the temperature has dropped dramatically as the wind begins whipping around them, and low, ominous clouds hang overhead in the night. He stands off the the side and rubs his hands together furiously for warmth as Sherlock goes over the details with the attending officer, his long coat waving behind him.  
  
As they finally walk away, rain starts pouring down in sheets, and they've got at least a mile to go before they have even the smallest of chances finding a cab. The water droplets are growing colder by the second as the rain forms into sleet, stinging his skin with every falling drop. His feet are tired and worn, and the deep, twisted scar on his shoulder is starting to ache from deep within thanks to the cold. He grimaces and rubs at it absentmindedly as they trek on.  
  
Suddenly, Sherlock stops in his tracks.  
  
John grunts in annoyance and turns back to him. "What are you doing?" he calls out.  
  
Without a word, Sherlock slips off his great wool coat and holds it out to him. "Here." John stares at him quizzically. "It's cold." Still, John just stares as the rain begins to soak through his shirt. Sherlock glances up at the sky in annoyance. "It's freezing and it's wet. If you stay like that, you'll get sick, and then the baby might get sick."  
  
John shakes his head slightly. "You know for a fact that's not how it works."  
  
He groans. "John."  
  
John closes his mouth and takes the coat. It's far too big for him as he slips it on, but the warmth is all encompassing.  
  
"Stubborn," Sherlock mutters under his breath as they begin walking again.  
  
John lets out a laugh. "You're one to talk."  
  
When they finally hail a cab a long twenty minutes later, Sherlock is soaked to the bone and shivering slightly, even with the heat turned up. He looks a proper mess with the icy water weighing down his usual curls, and his shirt sticking tightly to his skin.  
  
In his seat, John squirms around as he takes off heavy coat, half draping the dry side over Sherlock. "Thanks," he murmurs.  
  
He smiles at him softly as he shivers. "Don't mention it."

* * *

There's a sliding of sheets and the tangling of limbs as they move together. He sees in the dark room a flurry of naked skin as they slide against each other with sweat coming from their eager bodies. Large, steady hands hold his jaw as he's kissed deeply and thoroughly, and his own hands move upward, gripping fistfuls of curls. They roll, and finally, John slides his hands down the smooth, flat contours of his bedmate's stomach. As he pins down their wrists, familiar stormy eyes engulf his with their ever growing darkness, and he's pulled down, down and -

John wakes, breathing heavily as the evidence of his dream makes itself known under the sheets.  
  
_Fucking hell_ , he thinks, _I'm too old for this_.  
  
He glances over and finds that Mary is sound asleep at his side. Quickly, he throws the blankets off in agitation and makes his way to the shower, though it's barely past dawn. He lets the hot, steamy water pour over his tension filled muscles. He braces himself against the shower wall with one hand, and quickly works his erection with the other, the images of his dream playing on a loop in his head. When he hits the edge, he has to bite his fist to keep himself quiet.  
  
He stands there under the roar of the shower, panting.  
  
_I'm not in love with him_ , he tells himself.

* * *

Spring fades into a cool summer.  
  
The planet begins to warm, but dark, ominous clouds still hang overhead.

* * *

He worries about Sherlock, but then again, he always has.

John stops by 221B one afternoon, and lets himself in. Upstairs, he hears Sherlock yelling into the phone, his voice becoming increasingly loud, his tone getting more angry with each word. He takes the seventeen steps cautiously and listens in.  
  
"Of _course_  I'm working on it, Mycroft! What do you think I've been doing?" A pause. "If this _is_  Moriarty, don't you dare think for one second he's getting away with this. Not after -" his voices lowers. "Not after he's taken me away from..." He trails off, then stops momentarily. "He's not getting away with this, I assure you." The phone slams onto the table just as John walks in. Sherlock freezes when he sees him.  
  
"So," John says, glancing around, "I take it the pizza place down the block refuses to deliver?"  
  
Puzzlement crosses Sherlock's features for a second before relief sets in. "I was more in the mood for seafood, anyway. Dinner?"

* * *

He has lunch one day in the park with Greg, bringing Olivia along while Mary goes out for a while. Honestly, he's happy for the break. John takes Olivia out of her baby buggy and sits the squirmy five month old on his lap. Greg smiles at her and coos at her little fingers and nose. Olivia positively beams up at him. The dimples are showing in her chubby, pink cheeks, and her joyful blue eyes are shining in the sun.  
  
"She's lovely, John," Greg tells him as he leans back on the bench.  
  
John smiles. "Yeah, I think so."  
  
Greg takes a sip of his water. "Now that I've got you alone," he begins as he twists the cap back on the bottle, "how are you and -"  
  
"Fine," he answers too quickly, cutting him off before the question can be asked. "We're fine."  
  
Greg stares at him, uncertain, and he hesitates. "I meant you and Sherlock."  
  
"Oh," he breathes in surprise.

"I mean, is everything alright between you two?"  
  
John frowns. "Why wouldn't it be?"  
  
"I don't know. I just - I can't really explain it, but he hasn't seemed the same since the whole... You know."  
  
John does, but he has to remind himself that Greg doesn't. On his lap, Olivia begins babbling and reaching out for his jacket.  
  
"I haven't noticed anything," he says, only half lying, a tremor shooting through his left hand.  
  
Greg's smile is sorrowful. "You don't see him when he's not with you, John."

* * *

Late one night, John is on the sofa enjoying a movie after having just put Olivia in her crib. Mary sinks down next to him, and for a while, he revels in the silence. Soon, however, she begins to move closer to him. Her hand finds its way to his leg and starts to rub neat, subtle circles there. She moves in closer, pressing her body against his side as her fingers dip lower, caressing his inner thigh. John shifts away slightly, hoping she takes the hint. Soon, though, Mary's hand cups the side of his face as she presses her lips to his ear. She nips at it and begins to move down farther.

Unable to take it any longer, John pulls himself to one side of the sofa. "No," he tells her, unwavering.  
  
She backs off, regarding him with confusion. "Why not?" she asks, her voice on the edge of a demand.  
  
John shifts again. "I don't want to."  
  
She stands and begins to walk out of the room. "You seem to want to in your dreams," she mutters hatefully as she slams the door to their bedroom shut.  
  
John pinches the bridge of his nose just in time for Olivia to start to cry from her room.  
  
_Christ._

* * *

John is gone for two weeks. Two entire weeks without any sort of mobile phone reception as he's stuck at a conference with downed lines. The internet is out as well, along with the cable television, leaving him no choice but to use to landlines. Honestly, it feels like he's cut off from everything.

When he finally gets back to his house late in the evening, sets on the sofa next to Mary and flips on the television, he feels grateful to have a connection with the world again. The anchor is going on and on about a story from a week or so earlier; tragic thing, with many lives lost in a terrible accident. Or at least, that's what they seem to be calling it. John doesn't end up catching the specifics as he begins to zone out a bit, but a silhouette among the crowd on the television catches his eye.   
  
Frowning, he reaches to turn his phone on. His phone comes alight, and the notifications start popping up. There are at least two dozen text messages from Sherlock alone, with more coming in from Greg, Mycroft, Molly, and even Mrs. Hudson. The voicemail notification starts to pop up, and John know something has gone very, very wrong. Without hesitation, he gets up and grabs his jacket.  
  
Mary has been watching him the whole time, displeasure written across her face. "Where are you going?"  
  
John shakes his head as he slips his jacket on. "He needs me," he answers.  
  
Mary's voice turns to stone as he reaches the door. " _I_  need you."  
  
John's only reaction is to shake his head as he pops out the door and into the car.  
  
He practically runs up the seventeen steps to 221B. "Sherlock," he calls out, "Sherlock, you here?" The entire flat is dark, save for the linear moonlight peeking in through the windows, casting a ghostly hue along the walls. "Sherlock?" he calls out again, but still no answer. There's no sign of him in the living room, the kitchen, or even his bedroom. Finally, John hears a sort of shuffling sound of skin sliding against tile, the sign that he isn't alone.  
  
He finds Sherlock in the dark on the bathroom floor, who makes no acknowledgement of his arrival whatsoever. His knees are pressed up against his chest and his arms are wrapped tightly around them in some sort of self-assurance. His hair is in complete disarray and his pajamas hang loosely from his frame. Heavy and red rimmed, his eyes stare blankly in front of him as though he hasn't slept for days, haunted in a way that John knows all too well.  
  
John crouches down in front of him, automatically checking for physical injuries. "Sherlock?" When he gets no response, John very gently cups a hand around Sherlock's jaw. "Hey, now. Come out of your head for me?" he asks, lightly stroking Sherlock's stubbly skin.  
  
Slowly, Sherlock's tired eyes start to focus as he meets John's. His lips part slightly as he whispers a hoarse, "John."  
  
"Are you okay?" Sherlock gives him one long, cautious nod. "Alright, let's get you up."  
  
He leads Sherlock to the sofa, having him sit down as he turns on a dim light, just enough so he can actually see. Sherlock's fingers are twitching as he sits, and he's shivering ever so slightly. John inwardly curses for not being there, and he curses more at Mary for not telling him. Surely, someone would have called the house. But he can't focus on that now. Now, what he needs to do is make sure that Sherlock is okay. He joins him on the sofa, and gently, because he needs to know, he asks, "Did you take anything?"  
  
Sherlock's brow knits together as his mouth forms a stiff line. "No," he answers with some difficulty.  
  
With the way he's unable to sit still, the way his face is turning to stone, John knows the temptation is strong. "Talk to me?" John tries.  
  
Sherlock only blinks and moves his head to the side as he stares down at the wooden floor beneath their feet. He takes in a deep breath before speaking. "I..." He closes his mouth again, as though he isn't fully comprehending what it is he's trying to say. "There was a lead," he tells him very carefully, "and I thought... I thought it was him." He shakes his head, distressed as he forces himself to speak. "It was a trap." He closes his eyes with lines forming on his forehead. "There were children, John. _Children_."  
  
John doesn't know what to say. So many times he had been on the other side of this line. Back then, he wasn't sure what he wanted anyone to say to him, if anything. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. carefully, he reaches out and and cups Sherlock's jaw again. Sherlock leans heavily into the touch so much that he nearly collapses against him. John's mouth twists as he tells him, "It wasn't your fault, you know." The words don't help, however, and John's not certain anything will.  
  
The only thing he's certain of is that he isn't leaving Sherlock alone tonight.  
  
He doesn't even hesitate as he pulls the other man closer to his body, and Sherlock doesn't, either. He doesn't question it when Sherlock turns fully to him, hooking his arms underneath his, and burying his head in his shoulder. Neither of them say anything when they eventually end up nearly horizontal on the sofa. Maybe it should feel odd, perhaps a bit unsettling, but overall it just feels... right. They lie together in the quiet flat, arms wrapped around each other in comfort given and comfort taken.  
  
After a while, Sherlock burrows his face into the crook of John's neck. "People will talk," he whispers in amusement.  
  
John shivers at the sensation of the warm breath tickling his skin. He tightens his arms around Sherlock's slender figure and replies, "I don't care."  
  
The morning light slowly filters into the room, and John can feel the warmth of it as he wakes. There's a weight on top of him, legs tangled with his own, and a body holding him securely as he's drifts out of his slumber. Instinctively, John hugs the body closer, sighing in contentment. It's only when he runs his fingers through messy hair before he remembers the night before. He doesn't stop, however, he instead smooths a hand down Sherlock's back in a reassuring way. Sherlock turns his head just so, the tip of his nose grazing John's cheek.  
  
"Okay?" He feels Sherlock nod against him. "Good, because you're pressing on my bladder and I need to get to the toilet."  
  
Sherlock grunts in return and nuzzles his cheek. "Not interesting and not my problem," he mumbles sleepily.  
  
John can't help it and huffs out a breath of laughter. "Come on, get off me."  
  
He feels Sherlock smirk against his skin. "That's not what you said last night."  
  
John's mouth goes slightly agape at that, and a heat flushes his face. When he doesn't say anything, Sherlock shifts and pushes himself up, peering down at John. One eyebrow is quirked upwards and a crooked grin forming across his lips. _He knows_ exactly _what he just said_ , he thinks. John rolls his eyes and playfully pushes his head away.  
  
"Scruff doesn't exactly look good on you," John tells him as he stands, stretches out his aching back.  
  
"At least I didn't grow a mustache."  
  
John grabs the nearest pillow and tosses at his head, leaving Sherlock chucking as he heads off to the bathroom. When he returns, Sherlock is sitting on the sofa with his hands laced tightly together, staring at the fireplace with an unreadable expression.  
  
"Thank you," Sherlock says quietly as a blush creeps up his neck in obvious embarrassment, "for... you know."  
  
John half smiles. "I'm here as long as you need me."

* * *

"I don't like it," Mary says as she comes into the room.  
  
John is on the sofa, Olivia in one arm, feeding her her nightly bottle. He glances up. "You don't like what?" he asks, warily.  
  
She paces across the floor. " _You_ ," she accuses, "and _him_."  
  
He narrows his eyes. "What the hell are you on about?"  
  
She shakes her head and looks up to the ceiling. "Seriously?"  
  
Olivia starts gurgling and turning away from her bottle. He frowns before he sets her bottle down on the table. He's not looking for a fight, but if she wants one, it's going to be on his terms. He lowers his voice very, very carefully as he pulls Olivia to his chest. "I'll ask again," he says, "what are you on about?"  
  
"There you are," she says, her voice an octave higher than usual as she flails her hands in front of her, "running off to be at his side at a moment's notice. You're like his _pet_ , John, at his beck and call at all times. And then..." She fishes around in her pocket and pulls out John's phone. "Even when you're not with him, you're talking about him, and when you're not talking _about_ him, you're talking _to_ him, in the late hours. Do you have any idea how that looks?"  
  
John clenches his jaw and tries to remain calm, for Olivia's sake. "You've gotten into my phone?" he asks, his voice ominously low.  
  
"Oh," she huffs out, "don't turn this around on me!" She stands in the middle of the room for a moment, and takes a deep breath. "I'd rather you not see him. It would really make all of this easier."  
  
John literally has to bite his tongue to the point of bleeding until she leaves the room. Olivia makes a low sort of noise that John swears is almost a growl. "I know," he says as he glances down at her innocent face, "I know." He takes his phone off the coffee table and does the only thing he knows how.  
  
_I don't know how much longer I can do this._  
  
_\- Anything I can do?_  
  
_You're already doing it._

* * *

 John begins spending more and more time at Baker Street, often opting to spend the night, rather than grab a cab at 3 a.m. Soon,  as more and more of his clothes end up in Sherlock's closet, it begins to feel as though he's never moved out in the first place, but then he returns back to Mary, and the harsh reality always hits him like a ton of bricks. 

But tonight isn't one of those nights.

"Where are you?" she asks over the phone.

He catches Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, working on an experiment, and he smiles. "I'm at home," he tells her.  
  
"Really? Because I don't see you here."  
  
He bites down on his lip and corrects himself. "Baker Street. I'm at Baker Street." That seems to be happening a lot, lately. But to him, Baker Street will always be home. The house he resides in now is nothing m ore than a structure of deceit. 

Mary goes as far as to ask him angrily, "Just who was it that you married John?"  
  
All John can do is snappily tell her, "I can honestly say I have absolutely no idea."

* * *

"Let's take her with us," Sherlock suggests one day when a case suddenly arises.

John picks Olivia up from the floor, where the six month old had been attempting to crawl among the disorganized clutter of 221B. "You can't be serious," he says when he stands back up, baby in tow. "What if something happens? What if she gets hurt?"  
  
Sherlock takes a small step backwards at this, his expression clouded over. "I would never put her in danger, John," he stresses. "You know that."  
  
In his arms, Olivia begins to wriggle around wildly, stretching out her own arms to reach out for Sherlock. John holds her out to him, and Sherlock takes her into his arms without hesitation. She stares up at him in adoration and giggles as she pulls down on his scarf. Sherlock looks down at her as though she's an absolute treasure.  
  
"Alright," he exhales. Sherlock and Olivia both look at him. "Let's go, then."  
  
The case in itself isn't difficult nor long lasting, and it ends with them busting some crooked people at an animal rescue operation.  
  
When all is said and done, it ends with Sherlock and Olivia sitting on the floor of the shelter, the six month old sitting between the detective's outstretched legs as young puppies of all breeds flock to them. Sherlock holds Olivia steady with his hands as countless puppies came up to them both, sniffing them, licking them, and yapping in their ears. Olivia's sort blonde curls are in disarray, and she babbles and flails her hands around as she giggles uncontrollably at the minor chaos around her. As for Sherlock, It's one of those rare moments where his smile makes his eyes crinkle with joy. It's the happiest he's seen them both in a long while, and John wants to freeze the entire image in his mind forever.  
  
_You utterly ridiculous man_ , John thinks with a smile.  
  
It's pure happiness for all three, and occurs to him that this is what parenthood should feel like.

At that realization, he has to shake his head and tell himself again,  _I'm not in love with him_.

* * *

**Update**  
  
_As you will have seen in the papers, there are quite a few dogs out there needing_  
_a new home. Or at least, the shelter could use some donations. Do what you will_  
_with that. The dogs are all great. There was one bulldog pup in particular that_  
_took a liking to Sherlock. Though, I'm not sure it was reciprocated, seeing as how_  
_his famous coat had to be sent to the dry cleaner the next day. It was great though._  
_The dogs are happy and safe, and I have photos of Sherlock being mauled by_  
_puppies, so it looks like a win win for everyone (minus the coat, anyway.)_  
  
_I should say that the baby loved it, too. Yes, we took her with us. No, she was never_  
_in any danger. She seemed to rather enjoy it, actually, which is great because now_  
_maybe I can take her along with us (during the tame cases of course.)_  
  
_Sorry to keep things short, but duty calls._  
  
\-----  
You took the baby??  
Harry Watson  
  
I was not mauled by puppies.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
What would you call it, then?  
John Watson  
  
Attracting a vast amount of attention.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
Sounds like a "ruff" night!  
Mike Stamford  
  
Good God  
Anonymous  
  
No, attracting a vast amount of attention would apply  
to what happened the other night.  
John Watson  
  
Though in fairness, I was certain they'd maul you, too.  
John Watson  
  
Oh please, those girls never had a chance. I told you,  
girlfriends aren't my area.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
Right. Good.  
John Watson  
  
Good that you made it out alive, that is.  
John Watson  
  
Lol!! You two sound like an old married couple!!  
Harry Watson  
  
Don't they?  
Mary Watson  
\-----

* * *

"He's not as great as you think he is," Mary tells him. "He only does these things to show off for you, because that's all he is. You're completely delusional if you think he cares about you, John. You're only an audience."  
  
It's getting harder to keep from leaving with each passing day. John exhales, annoyed, and clenches his fists. "Stop," he says tightly.  
  
"When's he coming?"  
  
"Not for another hour at least," he replies, half lying.  
  
Mary's phone goes off and she curses under her breath, hurrying to the next room to answer it. Moments later, Sherlock is at the door, quietly letting himself in. Like a reflex, John is up and slipping on his jacket in a flash as Olivia starts babbling from her playpen. John is gathering a few things as Sherlock goes over to pick her up.  
  
"Hello my darling girl," he says once she's in his arms. She smiles at him, a joyful, toothless grin as she reaches out and grabs a fistful of his curly fringe. He winces comically before he pulls her fist away, and brings her little hand up to his lips to gently kiss it.   
  
John marvels at the sight, but they can't stay too long. "We better go," he says quietly, and Sherlock agrees, setting Olivia back down in her playpen.

He almost feels guilty for leaving without a word. _Almost_. But honestly, with the things he's kept his mouth shut about in that house, he feels almost obligated to leave. Later on, as the case comes to its end and the suspect is getting tied up, the angry, guilty man starts struggling and cursing out at Sherlock.  
  
"You're nothing but a heartless prick!" he screams. "You deserve to rot!"  
  
The short fuse on John's temper is lit as he blows up. Whether it be from the man himself, or from the ammunition Mary has built up in his mind, he doesn't know. He spins and pushes past Greg and the rest of the team as they try to stop him, but John ignores them. He seizes the man by the collar, letting his fist collide against his jaw. The man nearly falls before John yanks him back up by his jacket, shoving him against the squad car so forcefully it shakes.  
  
"Another word out of you," he growls in his face, "and you'll not live long enough to make it inside this car."  
  
"John," Greg calls out, his voice on the edge of warning, "enough."  
  
John stares daggers into the man before letting him drop. As he walks away, the suspect begins complaining to the officers about what just happened, but everyone looks on. It's only Greg who gives him a curious look as he passes by, but he doesn't say anything.  
  
"You alright?" Sherlock asks a bit later as they walk towards the main road.  
  
"Yeah," he answers, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "You?"  
  
Sherlock nods and clears his throat. "No need to defend my honor, _Captain_."  
  
John looks at him and smiles stupidly, amused at Sherlock's use of his title. "Shut up," he says playfully. "That's an order."  
  
Sherlock nods again, a lopsided grin forming on his face, a slight tinge of pink growing on his cheeks as he looks away.

* * *

He closes his eyes _._

 _I'm not in love with him_ , he tells himself for the thousandth time.  
  
And for the thousandth time, it has no effect whatsoever.  
  
Not since his days under the hot Afghan sun has he had to lie to himself so much.  
  
Back then, it only ended in heartbreak.

* * *

_She likes the hat._  
  
_\- Who? What hat? You're not making any sense._  
  
_You know exactly who and what I'm talking about._  
  
_-Nobody likes the hat!_  
  
_Everybody does, including her._

John sends him a photo, one of Olivia clutching onto a picture of Sherlock in, yes, _that_ hat.  
  
The very next time he goes to Baker Street, Sherlock slides it overly large deerstalker on her little head. "Looks better on her," he insists.

* * *

"I thought you had more a commitment to your wife and daughter," Mary tells him as they lie in bed. "It's ridiculous, really, that I have to fight for my own husband's attention. Do you have any idea how that feels, John? Any idea at all?"  
  
In his head, John mocks her, exasperated. _Do you have any idea what that word means? Any idea at all?_  
  
She goes quiet for a minute before she turns to him and says, "But you'll always choose him, won't you?"  
  
Sherlock's voice echoes in his head. _'You chose her.'_  
  
He doesn't so much as give her an answer as he goes to sleep. Deep down, he knows that when it comes to Sherlock, it could never be like that. Sherlock isn't an option, like a menu choice, nor is he something to fall back on. It's him. Over everyone else, it's always him, and John knows this.

* * *

John comes home early, and the weather alone gives him an ominous warning as the skies darken and the lightning flashes across the sky. Torrential rain pours down as he jumps out of the cab and makes his way to the house.

He jingles his keys in the lock, and he shakes the excess water our of his hair as he steps over the threshold. "Mary?" he calls out, shutting the door behind him. "I'm back." When there's no response, he sets his bag down at the doorway and starts a search.   
  
He comes to a standstill in the kitchen.  
  
Mary and David immediately jump and scramble away from each other, Mary's hair disheveled, a bit of her lipstick smudged onto David's mouth.  
  
"John!" David exclaims. "I didn't -"  
  
John stays very calm as he looks to David, his nostrils flaring. "Get out," he says in a dangerously low voice, "now." David looks between them, mumbles something inaudible, and leaves the room without too much hesitation. As soon as the front door clicks shut, John turns to Mary and scowls at her, his breathing becoming ragged with anger. He can't keep the hatred out of his voice. "What the  _hell_  are you doing?"

Mary stares at him in disbelief for a nanosecond before changing her stance, replying with only, "Oh, like _you_ can talk."  
  
"What are you - you know what? I don't even care." He doesn't have time for this. He clenches his fists and leaves the room without another word. He walks into Olivia's bedroom where she's standing in her crib, holding on to the edge with one hand for balance, and reaching out for her solar system mobile with another, seemingly blissfully unaware of the storm going on both inside and out. John immediately picks her up and grabs the travel bag on the floor with a few of her necessities in it.  
  
Mary stands in the doorway, her arms crossed, defiant.  
  
"Move."  
  
She shakes her head. "You're going to Sherlock's aren't you?"  
  
"It's no business of yours," he growls, "where I'm going with my daughter."  
  
She steps backwards and scoffs. " _Your_  daughter?" John ignores her and pushes past, grabbing a few of Olivia's blankets and heading straight for her car seat in the living room. "I don't want her around him," she calls out. "If anyone is a danger to her, it's that maniac!"  
  
Holding the baby girl tightly in his arms, John whips around in a flash. "You don't know  _damn_  thing, Mary," he nearly shouts. "And you know what? I haven't got a thing to say to you tonight. You're really not worth the fight." Mary stares, open mouthed. As for Olivia, she has to be sensing the anger in the room, because starts crying against John's chest.  
  
He shoots Mary a dark look as she starts yelling. Still, he says nothing as he straps a wailing Olivia into her seat, and covers it with blankets for safety from the rain. Mary continues her tirade when he steps out the front door, but the neighbors are all sheltered in their houses, and it bares no witnesses. He keeps his mouth shut tightly until he gets into a cab, only using his voice to calm the crying infant.  
  
He doesn't know where else to go, so just as predicted, he ends up at 221B. The rain is pounding so heavily against the ground that it acts as a curtain, blocking off his vision from anything more than ten feet away. He pays the driver and struggles with Olivia's car seat. In the few steps it takes to get to the landing, he's already soaked to the bone. He fishes around for his key in his pocket, but the door opens before he can find them, and Sherlock is standing there in his pajamas and royal blue robe.  
  
They lock eyes momentarily before Sherlock pulls the car seat from John's hands and ushers him inside and up to the flat.  
  
Sherlock has more than likely figured out why he's here, he realizes.  
  
"Sherlock, I'm sorry, I -"  
  
"It's fine," he says. "You're fine, John."  
  
Sherlock pulls the soaked blankets free from the car seat and lays them to dry by the fireplace. He starts fiddling with the restraints to pull Olivia free as well, and by this time, she's reaching out for him eagerly. John leaves them be and disappears into the bathroom, stripping his soaked clothes and hanging them to dry. He sits on the edge of the tub for a bit, holding his head in his hands. Honestly, he doesn't know what he feels.  
  
The only thing he's sure of is that he's glad he's here.  
  
There's a small knock on the door, and when John goes to open it, no one is there. On the floor he finds a neatly folded clean set of pajamas, something leftover from one of his many visits. He changes into the dry clothes and rejoins Sherlock and Olivia in the living room, where they sit on the floor, Olivia babbling nonsense to him.  
  
John runs his fingers through his wet hair as he sits in his chair. "So," he starts, nervously, "have you made amends with the pizza place down the block yet?"  
  
Sherlock glances at him, his brow pinched, and then realization dawns on him. "I think they'll be able to deliver to us tonight, yes."  
  
They order pizza and eat in mostly silence as the television blares on some medical show that has amazingly taken Sherlock's attention. John balances Olivia on one knee and takes small bites of pizza between spoon feeding her from the jars of baby food that were in the bag.  
  
Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the stuff. "That smells and looks horrible," he points out with a mouthful of food.  
  
Olivia makes a sort of agreeing gurgling noise and frowns after another spoonful. John half smiles. "I don't imagine it tastes any better, either." After a bit, Olivia starts turning her head away from the food, proving his point. John leans back into the sofa as she struggles out of his lap to crawl around the floor. "She's having an affair," he tells Sherlock. "But you've figured out that bit, haven't you?"  
  
Sherlock moves his gaze away, fixing it on Olivia. "It's not as if you're staying for her sake," he points out.  
  
John scrubs a hand over his face. "That's not the point."  
  
Sherlock turns on the sofa. "Are you alright?"  
  
He risks a glance to find Sherlock is watching him carefully from under his mass of dark curls. He focuses his gaze on Olivia, who happens to be trying to scramble her little body onto Sherlock's leather chair. He swallows and takes in a deep breath before exhaling. "I don't know," he answers eventually. "I honestly don't know."  
  
Sherlock doesn't ask any more than that, and John is more than grateful.  
  
As it gets later into evening, John is gently bouncing a crying baby in his arms as she fights sleep, being the little warrior she is. He walks her around the flat, tries feeding her, changing her, and everything else he can think of, but nothing is working. "Come on now," he says soothingly, "it's okay, shh."  
  
Suddenly, soft, familiar music begins floating to his ears, and John finds Sherlock standing near the window, his violin tucked under his chin, regarding them with careful eyes. Slowly but surely Olivia's cries become softer and softer still, her cries turning into unintelligible babbles until the tears stop flowing completely. John takes her to the sofa and sits down, adjusting her in his arms as she lets out a yawn and finally closes her eyes, her breathing evening out as her streaks of tears begin to dry.   
  
He wipes the tears from her face with a thumb, thinking he knows how she feels. John is exhausted, both emotionally and physically. Sherlock continues to play soft, soothing beautiful music from the strings of his violin as if he's pouring unspoken words with every note.   
  
As the song finishes, John finds himself finally relaxed. "Beautiful," he says. Sherlock catches his eye and manages a soft, knowing smile. He peeks down at Olivia lovingly as she clutches onto one of his fingers in her sleep. Sherlock begins another song, and before he knows it, his eyes close against his will, and he's soon floating off into the dream world, riding along the waves of Sherlock's sweet melody.

John wakes in the middle of the night. He blinks his eyes open, and then bolts upright, realizing he'd fallen asleep with Olivia in his arms.  
  
"She's alright, John," he hears Sherlock say gently. "I've got her."  
  
He adjusts his eyes to near darkness, save for the warm smolder of the cackling fire radiating through the room. He sees Sherlock half silhouetted in his chair with his long legs outstretched in front of him. Olivia bundled up in a thick blanket as she sleeps soundly in his arms. John finally realizes he's taken the sofa to himself, and that Sherlock has thrown a blanket over him as well. He begins to feel guilty for keeping him up, and starts to make movements to get up from the sofa.  
  
"It's half past two in the morning and you need your rest," Sherlock insists. "I've got her, John. Go back to sleep."  
  
He nods as he can already feel the edges of unconsciousness tugging at him. He settles himself back down on the sofa and turns his head so he can face Sherlock. He's holding the baby as natural as can be, regarding her with more openness and honesty upon his face than he shows to the rest of the world. John smiles sleepily.  
  
"She adores you, you know," he tells him.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Mm." He feels himself sleeping back into sleep as he shuffles down on the pillow as he murmurs, "She must get that from me."

John wakes slowly in the morning to the sounds of Sherlock's low voice and Olivia's giggles coming from the kitchen. Curious, he gets up and wanders in and finds Sherlock at the table with Olivia. On the table in front of them, John sees multiple bowls of apparently pureed fruits, and Olivia has evidence of it across her face and the front of her clothes.  
  
"What's going on here?"  
  
Sherlock turns his head to him. "Isn't it obvious? That food you fed her was vile. I figured I could make something better." At that moment, Olivia dips her hand into one of the bowls and shoves her fingers into her mouth before gazing up at John and smiling. "I thought of giving her honey at first, but quickly dismissed the idea as she's obviously too young."  
  
John can't help the slow grin that spreads across his face at the sight. "Well," John begins, "I think it was a success." He starts to walk to the fridge. "You know, before, I didn't think you really took to children," he mentions as he pours himself a glass of orange juice.  
  
"Well, she's not just any child, is she?"  
  
John puts the juice back and shuts the door. "Is that to mean you wouldn't like her as much if she wasn't mine?" he asks, amused.  
  
Sherlock's face goes grave for an instant as his brow furrows. "I didn't say that."  
  
John frowns. "Sherlock?"  
  
He turns his head away and clears his throat. "You're leaving soon, aren't you?"  
  
John stops just behind Sherlock's chair and considers them both. Olivia is as happy as can be gnawing on her fingers, and Sherlock seems content where he is. "I think we might stay a bit longer," he says as he places a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck without thinking. He runs his thumb over the skin. "I'm in no hurry."  
  
Olivia begins to babble as Sherlock turns to glance up at him. "Good. We're very busy, as you can see."

* * *

 John visits his therapist every now and then. It's pointless though, he thinks, to pay to sit and talk to someone about his problems, when he literally cannot talk about his problems. Instead, he finds himself babbling on about Sherlock and their cases. He brags about Olivia and how much he utterly adores her. He talks about the three of them and the time they share, and the adventures they go through.

Ella stops him forty-five minutes into his hour long session.  
  
"John," she says, "what about Mary?"  
  
John goes silent at this.  
  
"What about her?"

* * *

 John and Mary don't talk about what happened.

Mary acts as though everything is perfectly fine. She puts on a smile for the neighbors, and with John, she simply goes on about her business like nothing had ever happened. The neighbors are none the wiser. It's okay for a while, and John goes along with it for no one's sake but Olivia's, but he's wearing thin.  
  
One night as they lay in bed, John reads an old mystery novel as Mary props herself up on one elbow.  
  
"It's difficult to be married when you're in love with someone else, isn't it?"  
  
John doesn't even so much as glance at her. "I don't know," he says, "you tell me."

* * *

A cool summer fades into a bone-chilling autumn.  
  
As the leaves die out, they take their brilliance with them, leaving behind a dull, desolate landscape.

* * *

Olivia is on the floor near their feet, tearing up countless old magazines and flailing the ripped pages around.  
  
Harry sits on the sofa next to him and babbles on about the football match on the television.  
  
He supposes he couldn't avoid visiting her for the rest of his life, being siblings and all that, but their personalities clash with each visit. She talks to loud, laughs too obnoxiously, and never shuts up as she jabs him in the arm relentlessly between every play.  
  
He's thankful when a commercial comes on.  
  
"Oh," she says as she sits up straighter, brushing her wavy strawberry blonde hair out of her eyes, "look at her."  
  
John sighs in exasperation. "Yeah?"  
  
"Well look!" Harry turns her head to John. "Well?"  
  
"Well what?"  
  
She rolls her eyes. "You don't have anything to say?"  
  
He shifts uncomfortably. "I'm married, Harry, remember?"  
  
"Just because you're married doesn't mean you can't look." John crosses his arms at that. "What? Do you want to talk about her, then?  
  
"No," he answers, becoming more annoyed by the second.  
  
"Oh come on," Harry says, overly jokingly. "What's the matter with you?"  
  
"Nothing's the matter with me."  
  
The overly long advert continues in the background. "Oh, come on!"  
  
"Harry, stop," he warns.  
  
"Any straight man would have -"  
  
John loses his temper at this point, along with the control of his words. "Well I'm not any -" He stops himself, and he cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth. He's said too much.  _That wasn't supposed to happen_.  He goes to get up, and Harry grabs him by the arm, pulling him back down onto her sofa with a soft thump.  
  
"I know you're not gay," she says softly, "so does that mean -"  
  
"Leave it, Harry," he begs.   
  
There's a softness to her eyes that John's never seen before. "You never told me."  
  
Now, he's just angry as he nearly bites a hole on the inside of his mouth. "Yeah, well, it's nobody's business but my own, is it?" he grits out.  
  
"I suppose not," she replies, calmly.  
  
"And mum and dad wouldn't exactly have been happy, would they? I mean look -" He stops himself and shuts his mouth abruptly. "Sorry."  
  
Harry is silent for a long while. "Mum and dad aren't here anymore, Johnny."  
  
"I know."  
  
Honestly, he expects more. He expects some sort of snide comment or joke, or even a few choice words about his blog - about Sherlock in particular. Everyone else has, even herself in the past. But, to his surprise, Harry doesn't push it any further, only squeezing his arm in sympathy with her soft gaze giving him a silent, _'I understand.'_  
  
_Does she know? She must._  
  
The television suddenly pulls their attention back in. The volume of the crowd suddenly becomes increasingly louder with the sheer amount of cheers from those in the stands. "Well," Harry begins in a teasing manner and she leans back into the sofa and crosses her arms, "seeing as how we're in a tie, I suppose it's good you play for both teams."  
  
_And there it is_. John audibly groans as he tips his head back onto the edge of the sofa.  
  
From the floor, Olivia giggles delightfully.

* * *

John is working his usual shift when a young girl no more than ten years old comes into his exam room.  
  
He's getting things ready as she sits on the examination table and takes in her surroundings. Her slightly frizzy midnight curls frame her face, flowing seamlessly with her movements as she takes in the room with bright, inquisitive eyes.   
  
"Is that your baby?" she asks  
  
John glances up at the photo of him holding Olivia after she was born. "Yes," he answers.  
  
"What's her name?"  
  
"Olivia."  
  
She sits up a little straighter, smiling brightly. "Oh! That's a pretty name!" John shuffles his things to the side of his desk and begins to open the correct computer documents needed. The little girl leans forward a bit, and after a second she asks, "Is that your husband?"  
  
John stops what he's doing to turn to her. "Sorry?"  
  
"Him," she says, indicating a photo on his desk, "is that your husband?"  
  
John looks between the photo and his now dull wedding ring, remembering the contrasts of the hectic day that photo was taken.  
  
***  
  
 He would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous. In the back of his head over the past few weeks especially, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. But that's what people did, wasn't it? They got married and lived in houses and settled down into a stable life.  
  
Somehow, the thought of it didn't make John feel any better.  
  
"Here, let me help you," John said, tired of seeing Sherlock get into a losing fight with a tie of all things. "I know for a fact you can tie a tie," he mumbled as he leaned in close to Sherlock, gripping the fabric. "You proved that when you were temporarily French." He looped the fabric through the knot and pulled it tight, patting down Sherlock's chest after. Sherlock isn't looking at him, instead staring resolutely down at the floor as though he's fighting with himself. "Hey," John says softly, "you okay?"  
  
"Of course I'm okay," he answered, quick as lightning. John sighed and moved away from him, letting it go for the time being. They could talk later, there would be time, he thought. Sherlock turns away from him. "I still can't believe you wanted to wear this suit," Sherlock muttered. "It does nothing for your height."  
  
He rolled his eyes. "Shut up," John retorted, slightly annoyed. This day was going to be difficult all around. "You've got the rings?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock answered simply.   
  
"You're sure?"   
  
Sherlock's lips formed a straight line. John's hand began to shake, and all he could think was, _Why now?_ Standing in front of him, Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out John's gold band. Wordlessly, he moved and cautiously grabbed John's left hand, and to John's surprise, the touch alone made it stop trembling.  Sherlock carefully slipped the golden onto the correct finger and held John's left hand in both of his own, neither of them wanting to move.

"I'm sure," he murmured.  
  
For a long moment, they stayed like that, standing in no man's land until here was a knock at the door. "John, we're ready for you!"  
  
"In a minute!" John called back.  
  
Sherlock was already moving away, taking the ring with him.  
  
John had to give himself a bit of a shake after that. He sucked in a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, immediately cursing when he realized he'd messed it up. Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to fix it without a word, and John didn't mind. After, he looked in the mirror and straightened out his suit jacket for the thousandth time that day, and he found Sherlock's reflection there, watching him carefully.  
  
John met his eyes in the mirror as he ran his hands down his suit. "Why is it that on my wedding day, you look better than I do?"  
  
Sherlock knitted his brow. "We're wearing the same thing."  
  
John turned, smirking a bit and drug his gaze along Sherlock's body. "Yeah, but you..."  
  
Another knock came to the door. "John!"  
  
John was exasperated. "I'm coming!" He took one last glance in the mirror, then turned to Sherlock. "Well? How do I look?"  
  
Sherlock studied him for a long while. A touch of sadness around his smile, he answered, "Perfect."  
  
***  
  
In the photo from his wedding day, John is content as Sherlock stands beside him, wrinkles and lines on his face from attempting to keep in laughter after something John had pointed out. That photo replaces one John long had on his desk, an old newspaper photo from before everything got tossed into the storm.  
  
He frowns. "Er, no," he says. "He's not my husband, he's my..." he struggles for words before finally settling on, "Sherlock."  
  
She giggles at him. "That's a silly name," she tells him.  
  
John smiles. "He's a very silly man," he insists, "with a _very_ silly hat."

* * *

To say his head is pounding would be the understatement of a lifetime.  
  
John doesn't know where he is or how he got there. All he knows is that he's flat on his back, staring up into the pitch black night sky as warm blood trickles down his face. He can taste the bitter coating of copper on his tongue, eventually, and that's when he closes his eyes. He doesn't know how much time passes, but soon there are two hands holding his face, and a worried voice in his ear calling his name that's on the edge of trembling. He tries to open his eyes, but he just doesn't have the energy.   
  
A thumb strokes along his cheek soothingly. "John," the voice whispers, "wake up. John,  _please_."  
  
The scared, pleading voice is the last thing he hears before he slips under.  
  
He awakes slowly to the white noise of shuffling feet and beeping monitors. He struggles to open his eyes, as they feel like they've been weighed down with barbells. He struggles to open them just enough for the fluorescents burn into his vision, and before he's even fully conscious he's mumbling to whoever is nearby, "Where's Sherlock?"  
  
"You know," a kind voice says, " _most_ people wake up asking for their spouses."   
  
He listens, half coherently as the basics are explained to him. He's not getting out of the hospital anytime soon. Well, not for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, at the least. Soon, he's wheeled into a dim, desolate room that feels far too claustrophobic. Mere minutes pass before Sherlock scrambles through the door.  
  
His scarf is missing, his clothes are disheveled and dirty, and his hair is a right mess. But, his eyes are alight with relief. "John!"   
  
"Hey," he says groggily from his bed.   
  
Immediately, Sherlock is at his beside, inspecting single injury he sports. He tenderly examines the bruises on Johns wrists, the cuts along his arms, and the plaster over his head. As it's usually the other way around, it's all a bit endearing to John. "Are you alright?" he murmurs in question. Before he knows what's happening, Sherlock is intimately close, and he's stroking the pad of his thumb over John's sliced and swollen bottom lip. His gaze drags away from his mouth and locks on his eyes. 

Thank God he isn't hooked up to a heart monitor right now, or else the results would be... a bit too telling. "Yeah," he croaks, feeling a heat creep up his neck, "I'm fine." He coughs awkwardly and turns his face towards the side, sweeping his tongue over his bottom lip where he'd just been caressed. "You should go home, you'll be bored out of your mind here."  
  
Sherlock's expression falters, and he backs away, shaking his head adamantly. "And leave you here alone? They'll probably try poison you with their horrid food or something the moment I leave." He shakes his head again. "No. Absolutely not."  
  
John smiles, amused. "Alright," he agrees as he shuffles down beneath the scratchy hospital sheets. "But if you start talking in your sleep again, I'll throw you out on your ear."  
  
Sherlock's face scrunches up in disbelief. "I don't talk in my sleep!"  
  
"You do," John insists. "One time you went on a half hour spiel about otters and planes." Sherlock looks what only can be described as comically horrified. John chuckles at him as he finally settles. "Come on, now. Give me all the gory details of what happened tonight."  
  
"Didn't they tell you?"  
  
"Yeah," he admits, closing his eyes, "but I want to hear it from you."  
  
Bright and early the next morning, Greg comes to check up on him. "You doing okay, then?"  
  
He feels a bit battered, but all in all, he can't complain too much. "For the most part, yeah."  
  
"And him?" he asks, tilting his head to the side.  
  
John turns his attention to Sherlock. The exhausted man is still slouched John's hospital bed resting his head on his folded arms, sound asleep. Just as John stayed, Sherlock did, too, just like he knew he would. A warm fondness sweeps over him at the sight, and he absentmindedly runs a hand through Sherlock's frazzled hair. "He's fine," he answers softly.  
  
Greg coughs. "Er, John..."  
  
John follows his line of vision before reluctantly pulling his hand away from Sherlock. His voice is tense as he repeats himself. "He's fine."

* * *

**Update**  
  
_So, I got into a bit of trouble._  
  
_Well, I say a bit, and by a bit I mean I ended up hospitalized. I'm okay, though._  
_A bit achy, though. I don't remember much, to be honest, and from what I_  
_hear, it seems to be a good thing. I'm just glad to be out of there. As they say,_  
_doctors make the worst patients, and I'm no exception to that rule. I'm just_  
_glad Sherlock was with me the whole time to keep me from going insane._  
  
_I'm home now, though, with a baby tugging at my bandages. And no,_  
_she wasn't with us. Wouldn't have dreamed of even taking her out on a_  
_death mission like that. All's well that ends well, I suppose._  
  
_Need to rest, now. The things I go through for Sherlock._  
  
\-----  
Detail would be nice  
Anonymous  
  
Oh, John xx  
Harry Watson  
  
Glad you're doing alright!  
Mike Stamford  
  
Glad to hear it x  
Molly Hooper  
  
My poor boys!!! Let me know if  
you need anything, dear!!!  
Mrs. Hudson  
  
I never meant for you to get hurt.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
I know you didn't.  
John Watson  
  
I did say sorry.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
I know.  
John Watson  
  
Well, I am sorry.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
Stop saying sorry  
John Watson  
  
Sorry.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
Don't make me come over there  
John Watson  
  
I wish you would.  
Sherlock Holmes  
\-----

* * *

Eventually, he feels okay.

Sure, Moriarty is still out there and his marriage is falling apart, and almost everything that could go wrong has in fact gone wrong. But as he's running through the streets of London, chasing a man in a long coat, none of that seems to matter.  
  
They're hiding among the branches of a great willow tree one shimmering night, caught up in breathless laughter. "You are amazing!" John exclaims, panting for breath, leaning down to brace himself against his legs. "How did you even manage to work all that out?"  
  
Sherlock chuckles a bit as he catches his breath. "A mind palace does have its uses. I've told you."  
  
John shakes his head and grins. And he asks, because he's always wondered, "Have you got a room for me in there?"  
  
"Of course not," Sherlock answers incredulously as he straightens himself out. "You've got a wing." Before he can even process what he's just said, Sherlock grabs his hand, and they're running off into the darkness together.  
  
He feels on top of the world.

* * *

He and Mary end up fighting again one night with the tensions escalating, and it's more than John can stand. He came from a household where the constant noise among the walls was usually a screaming match between his mother and father, and more than anything, he wanted to avoid that. When he hears Olivia begin to cry, he feels like a failure.

Mary follows him, arms crossed and ready for another argument. He ignores her as he goes follows the crying into Olivia's room. He picks her up from her crib and holds her close, whispering soothing words in her ear as she sobs. His heart is aching for her.  
  
"You don't deserve this," he says softly as he rubs circles on her back, her tears staining his shirt.  
  
"No," Mary says, "I don't."  
  
John nearly bares his teeth at her as he bites out the words, "I wasn't talking to you."

* * *

He's playing with Olivia late one afternoon when the realization hits him.  
  
The nearly nine month old girl is laughing and squirming around on the sofa, and as he looks at her face, _really_ looks at her, his smile falters. Sometimes, after babies are born, they have a generic look to them and don't have any features that stick out in anyone's mind. Sometimes, that only happens as they grow, such as now. In her ears and her smile, he sees Mary, but as John searches for a bit of himself, he can't find any. Her eyes are a brighter shade of blue, her hair a darker shade of blonde, and her nose is much wider than either his or Mary's.  
  
The stormy night John took Olivia to Baker Street flashes in his memory, and he suddenly feels sick. 

As soon as Mary comes through the door, he pushes his way past her without a single word.  
  
He ends up walking a mile, fuming, before he realizes he should have gotten in his car. His temper is flaring from within, so he clenches his fists and shoves them deep into the pockets of his jacket before heading for the tube. He doesn't have a particular destination in mind, but he knows where he'll end up anyway.  
  
He practically stomps up the steps to 221B and goes straight for the liquor cabinet, opening and slamming doors and drawers all the while, and nearly breaking the glass in his hand from slamming it down on the counter with such force. He reaches up for the whiskey, but as he does, a larger hand engulfs his and stills it.

"Don't, John," Sherlock utters in his ear.  
  
A humorless laugh escapes him. "Well? Aren't you going to give me a look and tell me why I'm here?" he asks, bitterly.  
  
Sherlock's thumb strokes the inside of his palm. "No."  
  
"I'm a blind idiot," he says under his breath. John sighs and steps away from the cabinet. Of course it's not the answer, but it seems like a pretty good solution at the moment.   
  
Sherlock doesn't comment, instead beckoning him, "Come out with me tonight."  
  
John closes his eyes. He shakes his head, but at the same time finds himself asking, "Where?"  
  
They end up chasing two thieves down to an abandoned swimming pool, and both of them end up taking a dip, albeit unintentionally. Their clothes are thoroughly soaked through, and their phones are effectively deemed useless. At least, though, the thieves are caught outside the pool.  
  
John pushes himself above the surface of the water and takes a deep, painful breath at the fresh oxygen. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Sherlock struggling a bit, and he ends up hauling him to the side and yanking him out of the pool. They're both a wet, panting mess as John falls on top of Sherlock.  
  
"God, we're soaked," he groans. "And it's freezing out here!"  
  
Sherlock catches his breath and asks, "Do you want my coat?"  
  
"No I don't want your bloody coat!" Sherlock catches his eye, and before he knows it, they're both dying of laughter at just how ridiculous the entire situation is. John lays his head upon Sherlock's cold chest. "This is the last time I want to be anywhere near a pool with you," he says, and they begin laughing all over again.  
  
Once they're back at Baker Street, Sherlock takes the first shower, and he tosses his wet clothes out into the hallway with a splat before shutting the door. John sighs. _Some things never change._  He takes his jacket and socks, along with the bundle of Sherlock's soaked clothes, and pitches them over the chairs at the kitchen table, leaving them to drop dry onto the linoleum. In the front room, he starts a fire in the fireplace and leaves their shoes to dry in front of it.  
  
He eventually gravitates to Sherlock's closet to look around for some dry clothes for himself, and his jaw goes slightly slack at the sight of the wardrobe. It's full of Sherlock's immaculate jackets and shirts, yes, but at least half of it is filled with John's jeans, jumpers, and a few sets of pajamas. It hasn't occurred to him until then just how much time he'd been spending with Sherlock, and how many nights were spent at 221B.   
  
He hears the water shut off, so he goes to pick out a clean, dry outfit for himself. The hinges of the glass door squeak as Sherlock enters the room.  
  
He hears Sherlock say from behind him, "Hand me something, won't you?"  
  
"What do you -" his words die in his throat as turns around.  
  
Sherlock is inches from him, standing unabashedly naked, save for a white towel slung low and loose around his his waist. The water from his shower clings to his dark, heavy curls, and his entire chest is flushed from the heat of the shower. Hypnotically, John watches a water droplet fall free from Sherlock's hair, it leaving a marked trail as it slithers down his lean body, passing the V of his hips.   
  
Sherlock narrows his eyes. "What?"  
  
Snapping out of the trance, John can feel the embarrassed heat creep up the back of his neck. "N-nothing," he stutters. He turns on his heel and throws some random clothes Sherlock's way before quickly making his way to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.  
  
_Fucking hell._  
  
When John joins Sherlock in the living room after his shower, he's already stretched out like a feline in his chair, soaking up the warmth of the cackling fire. An empty glass sits on the stand table next to him, along with the bottle of whiskey John was reaching for earlier. There's a glass next to his own chair as well, half full.  
  
He sits and squints at Sherlock suspiciously as he picks up the glass. "I thought you didn't want me drinking."  
  
"Not in those circumstances," he replies. He begins to refill his glass.  
  
"Alright," he states, "suppose I should catch up, then." He downs his drink in a flash and ignores the burn it leaves down his throat. A few more quick repetitions, and he's in for. Soon, he feels warm and relaxed in his chair, sliding down in it and stretching his legs out comfortably.  
  
Sherlock is peering at him, concerned. "You're thinking of leaving," he deduces.  
  
"I know it's not the plan, but Sherlock, I just can't anymore."  
  
He nods. "Going to file for divorce, then? Then turn her in?"  
  
John lets out a bitter laugh. "Technically speaking, we're not even married," he points out.  
  
Sherlock puts his glass up to his lips and smiles playfully. "You never asked."  
  
_Cheeky bastard_. John laughs. "If I married you - wait a minute, is that _my_ jumper?"  
  
Sherlock downs his drink and shrugs. "Haven't the faintest."  
  
Suddenly inquisitive, John scoots forward on his chair. "Let me see," he says, but Sherlock tightens his dressing gown around him. "That's an order," John laughs. Sherlock flashes him a wicked grin as he pushes himself back into his own chair, he cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. John surges forward to confirm what he saw, and Sherlock begins laughing hysterically as he pulls his knees up to his chest, blocking his view. Wobbling, John stands, then stumbles as he pushes Sherlock's legs down, and he holds them down as he climbs onto Sherlock's lap. He pries the other man's arms away from his chest, opens his dressing gown, and finds his prized blue striped jumper. "It is!" he exclaims.   
  
Sherlock's hands find their way to John's hips as he whispers, "So it is."  
  
Silence falls over them quickly.   
  
There's been a spark between them since the moment they met, and it ignites at the most inconvenient times. John doesn't dare fan the flame, though, because in his mind, it's simply not what Sherlock wants. But now, here they are. Sherlock is staring up at him with dark, hungry eyes. His pink lips are parted and the breaths passing through them are uneven, and the pink along his cheeks is turning into a deeper red. Everything that John wants is at his fingertips, but he can't bring himself to move.  
  
It's at that moment, in his drunken state, he realizes he hasn't been intimate in a year.  
  
_Christ._  
  
He doesn't know who did it, or how it happened, but suddenly he's tipping backwards off of Sherlock's lap and onto the floor, Sherlock trailing after him. They hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud before Sherlock picks himself up and asks, hazily, "Whose turn is it?"  
  
John narrows his glassy eyes. "Whose... We're not playing game," he laughs.  
  
"Aren't we?"  
  
He shakes his head fondly. "No."  
  
Eventually, they find their way back to their own chairs. He stretches his legs out and lets them brush against Sherlock's as they begin to quietly talk again, and neither one of them seem to mind. It feels... good. It feels so good.   
  
John hides his face in his shoulder when things get quiet. "I miss you," he whispers.  
  
Sherlock murmurs in return, "Me too."  
  
John wakes the next morning to find Sherlock's entire body curled up into an uncomfortable position in his chair. His memory isn't much at that point, rather like trying to see through a steamed window. His head, though, is aching, and he knows Sherlock will soon feel the after effects as well. He grabs a couple of painkillers and a glass of water for himself before making the same remedy for Sherlock, setting it on the table beside his chair.  
  
His head may be foggy, but what he needs to do is clear as a bell.   
  
He slowly and silently collects his things and prepares to head back to the house.

* * *

It was inevitable.  
  
The plan was to wait at least a year, at first. Information needed to be gathered. Trust needed to be gained. After the plane turned around on the tarmac, the plan was to wait until they figured out who was behind the nationwide Moriarty fiasco, just to see if there were any ties. Or a year, whichever came first. In the end, it doesn't even last nine months. John's surprised he's actually lasted that long, honestly.

He spends a couple of tense, uncomfortable days at the house, letting Mary berate him, just to get it over with. He waits, and the next time that Mary goes out, John packs up what happens to be left of his things, which isn't much, really. He manages to get the last of his clothes and his items of importance into one duffel bag, realizing all the while that this place never felt like home. Olivia babbles on and giggles from the living room, making John's stomach sink to his shoes.  
  
It's getting late, and he knows she'll be sleeping soon.  
  
When he finishes packing, he picks Olivia up from her playpen and sits on her on his lap. She smiles widly at him and reaches for his face. With Mary, he can leave on a dime and never look back. With Olivia, it's a different story. She's already mesmerized him, and she has from the moment she was born. He doesn't want to do this, and his heart is tearing itself to pieces over the entire mess.  
  
He swallows down the thick lump in his throat."I just want you to know," he begins, hoarsely, "that I'm not leaving _you_ , little one." She stares at him curiously and reaches out for his collar. He grabs her tiny hand and holds it gently within his own. "None of this is your fault, and this isn't goodbye." _It's not_ , he promises, _never goodbye_.  
  
As she begins winding down, she cuddles up close to his chest, and all John can do is hold her. She falls asleep on him, before too long, and he has to remember to calm his breathing. He holds the sleeping infant close to his chest and whispers, "I want you to know that no matter what, I love you." He pauses and bites his lip for a second, the hot tears prickling at the back of his eyes. " _No matter what_."  
  
He holds her for as long as he can, and when he hears the car pull up, he reluctantly puts her in her crib, and he waits.  
  
Mary knows the second she steps into the house, for the atmosphere has turned completely sour. She glances at the bags and throws her keys down on the counter with a clatter. "I've always been a crutch, haven't I?" she asks. "Did you ever love me at all?"  
  
John doesn't have any strength left in him to lie. "I'm not sure I could ever love someone who doesn't exist."

* * *

_I can't just show up and expect to be let back in_ , he thinks when it comes to 221B

He stays in a run down hotel for a couple of nights before confessing the situation to Greg, who offers him the guest room of his house. John gladly accepts the offer, happy to have a more stable place to sleep for a few nights at the least while he figures things out.  
  
They are both at the kitchen table eating breakfast in their pajamas when Greg tells him, "You'll be alright, John. Divorce isn't all that bad." He takes a bite of his toast. "Though with the baby and all, well. Your situation is a bit more messy, isn't it?"  
  
John shakes his head. "You have no idea."  
  
Greg finishes up his breakfast and heads off to put the dishes in the sink. "At any rate, it'll get better. You can stay as long as you'd like."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
John is just cleaning up his own dishes when the doorbell rings. At first, he ignores it, but then it rings again. And again. Greg is off in the other room, so John tightens his dressing gown and goes to the door. When he opens it, he finds Sherlock, whose face goes from determined to downright confused.  
  
"What are you doing here? Where's Lestrade?"  
  
"He's er," John starts, scratching his neck, "getting dressed, I think."  
  
"Getting..." Sherlock trails off. His eyes dart from John's bare feet, to the house, to his pajamas, and then finally to the state of his messy hair. It's only a second before his eyes widen, his mouth opens, and he physically steps back, face melting into comical horror.  
  
John follows his silent train of thought and bursts out laughing so hard that it feels like his sides are going to split. Sherlock is scowling at him, with a touch of hurt around his features. "Oh my God, Sherlock, no," he tries to say between fits of laughter.  
  
Sherlock stammers as he rubs the back of his neck. "Good."  
  
His eyes are watered when he straightens himself out. He wipes away a tear, laughing. "I'm just staying here for a few days, is all."  
  
"Oh," he replies. He pauses for a moment. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"We, ah, never talked about what would happen, after." He coughs. "Anyway, I couldn't -"  
  
"You can, and you will," he interrupts.  
  
John nods. "Alright, yeah." He clears his throat. "Good."  
  
Sherlock shuffles his feet a bit awkwardly and looks down. "Baker Street will always be your home, John."

* * *

Things are going as well as can be expected. He's feeling better. He's sleeping easier. He's finally _breathing_.  
  
When John does see Mary for necessities, David is there, and he can't even bring himself to be upset. He takes Olivia home with him when he can, but for the most part, with Mary being spiteful, he doesn't see her much. John worries about her more than anything. "What if she takes her away, Sherlock? What if she -"  
  
Sherlock shakes his head from the other side of the table. "She won't."  
  
"How can you be so sure?"  
  
"I won't let that happen."  
  
He files for divorce as he finishes moving his things back into Baker Street.  
  
One night at dinner, over a bowl of noodles, John tells him, "She never liked it, you know. Me even mentioning you."  
  
"I should think not."  
  
"Almost like jealousy," John says accidentally out loud.  
  
"Am I something to be jealous of?"  
  
John just playfully nudges his leg as a silent gesture of ' _shut up_.'

* * *

_It should be pouring_ , he thinks, _the skies should open completely and drown it all out_.  
  
He was going to turn her over to the police in a few months time, but that isn't going to happen now.  
  
It was only weeks after he had handed her the papers that it was made even more evident that Mary hadn't left her past behind. The whole thing was a bit of a mess, really. She tricked them into a case, and caught up with them an an abandoned building on the outskirts of town. Her eyes were sinister and her promise was deadly, and John wasn't about to let her shoot Sherlock for a second time. 

Mary is gone, and John's feelings are all over the place.  
  
The night skies remain clear, and the only thing drowning out John's thoughts are the blare of the sirens and sheer intensity of the lights from the emergency vehicles. He sits on the curb across from the supposedly abandoned building with his arms perched on his knees, his hands obscuring his mouth as his eyes burn, unblinking at the sight. It's chilly, and Sherlock's coat is draped over his shoulders while the man himself sits next to him, his arm loosely around his waist.  
  
He doesn't cry, he doesn't fall down in disbelief, and he doesn't feel the heavy emptiness of loss he thought he would back on the day he married her. Instead, he sits there quietly, unable to move, unable to think, unable to even feel. Soon, Sherlock is gently nudging him asking if he wants to go home.  
  
He doesn't remember how he got to Baker Street.  
  
Sherlock sits next to him, letting the sofa cushions shift beneath him. "Do you want me to get Olivia?"  
  
John's mouth twists in an unnatural way. "She's with David," is all he can manage.  
  
Sherlock stiffens slightly. "I know."  
  
Everything has gone so wrong, so quickly. Once again, his life is flipped upside down, and this time, he doesn't even bother to make it right. He doesn't have the energy. And tonight, while the wound is still fresh, John might as well know the truth. He knows it's going to hurt, but he has to ask anyway. He stares down at the floor. "She's not mine, is she?"  
  
For a while, all that can be heard is the loud ticking of the clock, and John's own breathing in his ears. Finally, Sherlock shifts on the sofa and clears his throat. John can't bear to look in his direction. "I believe there are more determining factors to a child's dad rather than pure biology."  
  
He handled his wife's secret past, her determination to get rid of his best friend, the long weekends away, the affair, and the awful pain that was their sham of a marriage in general. But to have his daughter - or so he thought - dragged into this God awful mess is too much.  
  
"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock says. "I did everything in my power I believed to be right for the sake of your safety and happiness, and I've failed." He pauses, and hesitation is heavy in his voice when he speaks again. "If I hadn't come back, none of this would have happened, and you would be -"  
  
"Stop," he objects. He can't do this. Not now. He's just too exhausted to deal with anything.  
  
Eventually, Sherlock leaves the room, only coming back with a mug of hot tea as he sits it on the coffee table. John watches the steam swirl into the air, mesmerized by it, letting it hypnotize him completely until it slowly grows cold. He ends up sitting there on the sofa for a long time with his head in his hands, wondering just what it is that he's done to deserve this.   
  
"Distract me," John begs after a bit. "Please."  
  
So Sherlock does.  
  
He turns on the television to a cheesy made for TV movie, the kind whose plotlines are deducible from the first five minutes. Sherlock pays no attention to that, and soon begins rambling off deductions about the actors and their lives, the sets, and the subtext he finds within the film. Eventually, Sherlock's right arm extends along the back of the sofa, and John finds himself leaning into Sherlock's body, resting his head at the crook of his shoulder with comfort given and comfort taken.  
  
"I have a lot of regrets," John begins, hours later, "but you're not one of them."  
  
Sherlock's finds its way around John's torso and pulls him in as John curls in closer and lets his eyes fall closed. He awakes sometime later in the dawn, and he knows he hasn't slept much by the intensity of the burning in his eyes. Sherlock's phone goes off, and the screen nearly blinds John in the dimness of the flat as he tries to blearily read the message and fails. Sherlock turns the screen off and sets it down after a quick glance at it.  
  
"Who was that?" he asks, sleepily.  
  
"Lestrade. Has a case he needs me on."  
  
"You're not going?"  
  
Sherlock's head move to one side as he stares at the nearly mute television. "You're more important," he argues. John nods. He knew this already, but the confirmation hits him harder somehow. Sherlock glances down at him and then quickly away. "You really should go lie on the bed, you'll have back pain for days this way."  
  
"M'fine," he mumbles. He could stay here, with Sherlock for as long as he wanted. He's awfully comfortable here. But he knows what will be better for him in the long run. He carefully sits up and peels himself away from Sherlock. He rubs at his burning eyes and mumbles, "We should go."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"Certain," he says, stretching, letting his back creak and pop in response.  
  
Soon, they're on their way, chasing people through the streets. It's only after the sun has gone down again that they're all in custody, and that Sherlock and John find themselves on a dimly lit pathway, laughing like there's no tomorrow.   
  
As they laugh, all of John's emotions bubble to the surface, and he lurches forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock in a tight grip. He practically sags against him and buries his face in his shoulder, the wool of his coat scratchy against his skin. He doesn't care if anyone sees, he doesn't care what anyone thinks. All he cares about is where he is in his life right here, right now. He can't bring himself to say a word, but he hopes his message is loud and clear. _Thank you, for everything. You're my best friend. I don't know what I'd do without you. I love you._  
  
Sherlock stiffens for the briefest second before wrapping his own arms around him and whispering in a comforting voice, "It's alright, John."

* * *

The next day, Mycroft shuffles through a stack of paperwork at his desk. "It's all very complicated," he tells them.  
  
"Well, _un_ -complicate it," Sherlock demands.  
  
Mycroft gives his brother a look. "You know I would if it were that easy, but it isn't, little brother."   
  
"Isn't there something - _anything_ \- I can do?" John asks.  
  
Mycroft sighs. "She was an assassin under a falsified identity whose past caught up with her. You were in the midst of a divorce, though it wasn't legal considering the false identity. You had a child together, who turned out... not to be yours," Mycroft says as gently as he can. "And on top of that, you were at the scene, though that bit is taken care of." He rubs tiredly at his temples. "You can understand why there are complications as to who Olivia goes to, John."  
  
John sucks in his lips and blinks.  
  
"Mycroft," Sherlock says quietly, pleading.  
  
Mycroft looks between them. "I'll certainly do my best."

* * *

There is no funeral for Mary. She is laid to rest, however, under her pseudonym. John stands at the flat, marble stone in the cold autumn wind, with his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. He doesn't know what to say, if anything, so he doesn't speak. He doesn't even know what to _feel_. He stands there a while until Sherlock comes up next to him and gently moves one arm across his back.

The cold wind sweeps through his air. "Was anything about her real?" he asks, quietly.  
  
Sherlock pulls him marginally closer. "She did love you, I suppose."  
  
All John can do is shake his head. "Not exactly the best kind of love, was it?"  
  
The wind picks up, sending shivers through both of them on the grey, dismal day.

* * *

**Update**  
  
_Good evening._  
  
_Under the circumstances, I suppose it's not._  
  
_I am here to tell you, however, that John would like you all to know_  
_that you should stop bothering him._  
  
_Well, he didn't say those words, but I believe that's more to the point._  
  
_He's telling me this is a bit rude. He says he appreciates your well_  
_wishes, but at this point, I'm a bit tired of hearing his phone go off._  
_He has a frankly appalling choice in ringtones._  
  
_For the sake of my ears and John's sanity, leave him alone._  
  
_Sherlock Holmes_  
  
\-----  
*comments disabled*  
\-----

* * *

 John's nightmares return with a vengeance.

Always, they end up blurred and rushed, but the dreams end the same. Sherlock disappears from his view, and then Olivia, and then Mary. In the distance, he can hear a familiar voice, smoothly speaking. The voice cackles as screams from the other three fill the air.   
  
He awakes with a start, panicking. Sherlock is perched next to him at his feet, his hand on his leg. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Of course I'm alright," he bites out a bit too harshly. He gets up, pushes past Sherlock, and makes his way to the kitchen. Guilt weighs him down, and at night is when it gets to it's worst point. Dazed, he eventually finds himself sitting on the sofa in the living room. Sherlock appears next to him.  
  
He speaks softly. "Stop that. Feeling guilty is unbecoming of you."  
  
"I don't know what else to feel." He pauses for a moment before admitting, "I think she might have been the worst thing to ever happen to me."  
  
"You're not taking your mustache into account," Sherlock tells him. It's a good, lighthearted joke, and John actually does smile at it a bit.   
  
"Certainly isn't the best," he mumbles.  
  
"And what, pray tell, _is_ the best?"  
  
John doesn't even need to consider it before answering, "You."

* * *

Things don't exactly become easier. Then again, for John, nothing ever does. He's tied up in paperwork from all sides of the government, and he feels like he's slowly losing his mind. No one else besides Mycroft and Sherlock know, and John intends to keep it that way as he's flooded with an outpouring of sympathy. It all becomes too much to deal with, soon.  
  
Meanwhile, Olivia is still in David's custody, and they both  _know_ , which makes everything a bit more tense than it should be. He does take care of her, though, and it's all John can ask for. Between him and being handed over to the government, there are no real winners, but he's the better choice.  
  
It's all far worse than John could ever imagine, and he's glad Sherlock is there every step of the way.  
  
The two of them are dining at Angelo's one night a few weeks later when John realizes he's still wearing his wedding ring. He slips it off his finger and holds it up to the light to inspect it. The outside is covered in dirt and scuffs, and a long ago memory comes to him.  
  
"State of my marriage right there," he says as he sets the ring on the table. His finger almost feels naked without it after having worn it for so long, but at the same time, it feels oddly good, as though a weight has been taken from him. They haven't talked about it, because frankly they've been too busy, but John figures now is as good a time as any to bring it up. "Did she have anything to do with him? Moriarty? I mean, we still haven't -"  
  
"You'll know as soon as I do, John," he assures him.  
  
After a long moment, he gets up the courage to ask Sherlock, "Did you know? About her past?"  
  
Sherlock starts fiddling with his own fingers. "No," he says. "There were signs that were obvious looking back, signs that I missed, perhaps purposely."  
  
John tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. "Purposely?"  
  
Sherlock's features all turn downward as if gravity has just increased on his side of the table. "When I came back," he says quietly, "you were with her. You were engaged. You were happy." He begins fiddling with his fingers. "I suppose in wanting you to stay that way, I... well." He pauses, staring down at his glass. "But I didn't know."  
  
Suddenly, he shifts, looking incredibly uncomfortable. "Had I known, and had I told you," he starts, "would you have believed me? Or would you have never spoken to me again?"  
  
John considers it. "I don't believe the last half of that was ever going to happen, no matter the circumstances." A violent tremor shoots through his left hand at the memories of Sherlock's absence, something he never wishes to go through again as long as he lives. Sherlock notices the tremor, and places his larger hand on top of John's without a word.  
  
It instantaneously disappears.  
  
Soon enough, Angelo brings out their usual order, and they get to eating. Well, John gets to eating part of his food, watching as Sherlock keeps stealing bits off his plate.  
  
"Why can't you eat your own food?" he asks, letting his fork clatter to the table.  
  
Sherlock shrugs. "Yours looks better."  
  
He blinks in annoyance. "Then why didn't you order it?"  
  
"I didn't want it," he says before stealing another fork full of his pasta.  
  
John starts laughing, resting his chin on the back of his hand. "You're ridiculous," he says fondly.  
  
Their knees brush together as Sherlock smiles at him and asks, "Would you have me any other way?"  
  
John stabs his fork into a meatball on Sherlock's plate. "Absolutely not."

* * *

John is having a mid-December late morning lie-in. He's far too comfortable to even think about moving any time soon. He's just about to drift back off when he hears the purposeful clearing of a throat from across the room. He peels his eyes open only to find Greg standing against the far wall. His arms are crossed, one eyebrow is quirked up, and a stupid, crooked smirk is forming across his face.   
  
John's stomach immediately drops.  
  
He clears his throat again, purposefully.  
  
Next to him in the bed, Sherlock is flopped over on his stomach with his left arm thrown rather dramatically across John's chest. He burrows his head farther into his pillow with a groan. "Tell him to go away," he mutters.  
  
"Nope," Greg answers, "I need you up and out of this bed. You too, John."  
  
John's face feels like it's on fire with embarrassment, and he has no time to explain before they're getting dressed and getting whisked off across town. They are needed, as it turns out, for the entire day and well into the evening as they're both nearly gunned down in an alleyway. Sirens are already blaring in the distance, but as soon as the shots ring out, John instinctively yanks Sherlock close as he thrusts himself against a brick wall.  
  
They stand together silently, hearts pounding and limbs tangled as the traces of their panting breaths mingle in the winter air. They become so focused on one another's well-being that the squad cars go unnoticed until harsh headlights flash in their faces. They both turn in time to see Greg stepping out of his car and spot them, and John knows he has made his situation that much more complicated.

They untangle themselves and answer the necessary questions before John heads off to his favorite pub, alone.  
  
_What a day_ , he thinks as he downs his first beer. A half hour passes before he finds himself no longer alone, Greg sliding up next to him. He orders a beer as John hangs his head. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Shift ended," he explains. "I thought I'd find you here," he says as the bartender slide him his beer. "So. I suppose congratulations are in order, I mean, you and Sherlock and all that."  
  
John stumbles over his words. "No, it's not - we're not -"  
  
"Oh for Christ's sake John," he groans, "give it up!" He lowers his voice as people begin to stare at them, and John can feel his face go red. "This morning I find you in bed with him thrown around you like an octopus, and then tonight in the alley -"  
  
" _That_ ," John interrupts, "was because he was in danger. You heard the shots!"  
  
"Right." Greg takes a sip of his beer.  
  
"And this morning, well." He coughs. "It's either that or the sofa."  
  
Greg sets his beer down and raises his eyebrows. "Sure."  
  
"It's the truth!" he exclaims, completely and utterly exasperated at the entire situation. It's bad enough to have to hear it from everyone else, but from Greg, too, that really hits home.  
  
"It's been months, haven't you fixed up your old room yet?"  
  
"I have been busy with a few other things, you realize."  
  
An expression of guilt hangs over Greg's face for a moment. "Right, yeah. Sorry."  
  
Just when John thinks he's backed off, he comes at him again.  
  
"How's your dating life?"  
  
"Seriously, Greg, the nerve you've got tonight." John shakes his head in disbelief and takes a drink of his own beer. Honestly, he just wanted to sit here in peace. He didn't come to the pub to play twenty questions.  
  
"Come on," he teases, "tell me. Met anyone?"  
  
He lets out a humorless laugh. "God, no."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
He's getting annoyed by this point, to the edge of anger. Excuses spill out of him at lightning fast speed. "Look, even if I did meet someone, isn't it a bit soon? And besides that, where would we go, hmm? Can't exactly go back to Baker Street."  
  
"Not too soon," he insists. "And, you could go to their place, or rent a room. You know what? As a matter of fact, look over there." Across the bar, there are a couple of lovely women sitting alone, smiling at them both invitingly. Greg nudges his shoulder. "Go on, then."  
  
John shakes his head adamantly. "No."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I don't want to," he insists, unwavering.  
  
"Have any plans tonight?"  
  
"No."   
  
 "Then why not?"  
  
"Greg..." John warns, picking up his glass.  
  
Greg doesn't give up there, as John hopes he would. Instead, he questions him further, his tone slipping into one he usually uses for criminals. At this point, he's practically grilling John for a straight answer, and it's really getting under John's skin. "Tell me!"  
  
He slams his glass down on the bar, sending the amber liquid splashing out and onto the floor as explodes. "Because I don't _want_ anyone else!"  
  
Greg lifts his eyebrows. "Anyone _else_?"  
  
"Yes, anyone else, Sher-" John stops dead and takes in the sight of Greg's knowing smirk on his stupid face. Greg knew exactly what he was doing, he realized, and he had just fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. "Oh, my God," he says under his breath, tearing his gaze away from Greg. He swallows, and then hangs his head in his hands.  
  
Greg claps him on the back. "Knew you'd tell me eventually."  
  
He realizes by then that the bar has gone quiet, and they have gained several curious eyes upon them. The jig is up, and there is nothing he can do about it now. _This can't be happening, this simply can't be happening_. He waits until the chatter starts up again, and all he can find himself asking as he stares helplessly at the bar is, "How long have you known?"   
  
"I think the question is, rather," Greg starts, "does _he_ know?"

It's half past midnight by the time he finally heads home, and nearly one in the morning by the time he actually makes it to 221B. He has spent so many months - so many years - trying to convince himself it wasn't what it was, but it was never of any use. The word from the pub will be spread quickly from his unwelcome spectators, however, so he knows he has to talk to him.  
  
He has to talk to Sherlock and then... God knows what.  
  
He doesn't want to think of the possibilities.  
  
He isn't ready for this conversation, and he doesn't think he ever will be, no matter how much time he's given, but he needs to talk to him. It's out in the open now, and he can't take it back. Not that he would ever want to take it back, it's just... _Jesus_ , it's complicated.  
  
He steels himself as he enters the flat, only to be welcomed by darkness and silence. He finds Sherlock already gone to sleep, curled up on his own side of the bed. John is grateful for small miracles as he changes into his pajamas and slips beneath the covers.  
  
When he wakes the following day, Sherlock is nowhere to be found.  
  
It isn't until much later that John finally hears from the man, with a simple text in the form of an address, and John doesn't think twice about hailing a cab. In hindsight, as he awakes in the freezing concrete cell, his hands cuffed behind his back with the metal digging into his skin, he realizes he should probably pay more attention to the local cabbies, a lesson that should have been learned long ago.  
  
_Perfect timing_ , he thinks, sarcastically. Night falls over the cell as John mentally berates himself over and over. Really, this wasn't his year, this wasn't his _life_.  
  
"Don't worry, John," Sherlock says from the other side of the cell, "I'll get you out of this."  
  
John's eyes snap up to Sherlock in disbelief. Honestly, if he thinks John is just going to walk out of this building free as a bird and leave Sherlock behind, he's got another thing coming. " _Us_ ," he corrects, "you'll get _us_ out."  
  
Sherlock tears his gaze to the floor at that before he utters a quiet, "Yes."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Turn your back to my back," Sherlock instructs a bit later, "I've got an idea. Require breaking your watch, I'm afraid."  
  
He does as Sherlock asks, and after a few agonizing minutes of cursing and odd maneuvering, John is free of his cheap, painful cuffs, ready to get out. There's a small window about ten feet up, and he thinks if they are careful, they can manage to get themselves out. He's just about to free Sherlock himself when a burly, bearded man storms down to their cell. Quickly, John shoves the handcuffs into the back of his jeans and throws his hands behind his back to make it look like they were still on.  
  
"My boss will be glad to be rid of you two," the man gloats as he opens the door and steps inside. "Read a lot about ya, on that blog and in the papers." He looks between them with a sickening grin. "Going out together should be a dream for you two! Although..."  
  
The man is quicker than he seems, because suddenly, he's across the length of the cell and John's shirt is twisted in one of his large hands. The man shoves him back against the harsh concrete, and John winces as his head collides with the wall. "A separate death would be more entertaining," he tells them, a wicked, sickening grin coming to his face. He shifts his hand upwards and wraps it around John's throat, effectively making it difficult for him to breathe. With the other hand, he pulls a large knife out of his holster and holds the cool, metal blade just under John's chin.  
  
John has choking, gasping for air at this point, but he doesn't dare move his hands away from behind him back. If they still have even the smallest of chances of getting out alive, John needs to keep the charade going.   
  
Sherlock lurches forward as the man begins to move the sharp blade. "No," Sherlock cries out, "don't!"   
  
The man turns to him angrily, and his hand slips just enough for John to breathe.  
  
"Ahhhh," he says, "I get it now." He inclines his head towards John. "You love him."   
  
Sherlock's face turns to stone. He mouth shuts firmly, and his eyes narrow as his eyebrows lower in anger.  
  
"But it's more than that, isn't it?" the man demands, taking in the look of pure hatred on Sherlock's face. "It is!" he exclaims in delight. The man begins laughing, now, in a hardy way that makes John's stomach feel sick. "Of course, I've always assumed from what I've read - well, everyone's assumed." He looks between them, gawping amusedly at what he sees. Finally, he turns to Sherlock with a smug, tight lipped smile. "You're _in_ _love with him_ , aren't you?"  
  
John feels as though he's going to pass out, and he isn't certain of the cause.  
  
John would be lying if he said the thought never crossed his mind, because it often did. It was the only thing that made sense. Then again, with Sherlock, sometimes hardly anything makes sense. Always, though, when that thought came he shoved it as far away as he could and replaced it with denial, with lies, with reasonings he's always known not to be true.   
  
_He doesn't want this_ , he told himself, before.  
_He loves - no, don't hurt yourself_ , he reasoned.  
_I'm not in love with him_ , he lied, and lied, and lied.  
  
It always hurt less, that way. It made it hurt less during the two years Sherlock disappeared, taking John's heart with him. It made it hurt less the day John turned to Mary said, ' _I do_.' It made it hurt less during John's bedside vigil after a bullet nearly took him away.  
  
But for all the heartache it lessened, it's hurting that much more _now._  
  
The storm John was caught in - that both of them were caught in - was too much to handle.  
  
"Oh, this is too good," the man gloats as he lets John go. He walks to the door of the cell and gives them one last, haunting look. "Later, boys," he calls, slamming the door shut.   
  
John rubs at his neck and takes a few deep breaths.  
  
The first time he looks at Sherlock after that, it makes his heart ache.  
  
They can't _do_ this now.  
  
He stands in the corner of the cell, hands still behind his back, head hanging downward as though the knowledge itself was a life sentence. His stiff upper lip is no more, twisting and trembling oddly. His cheeks are flushed with a deep red, and the same color is beginning to form around his eyes from what John can see. He doesn't look up at John, though. He doesn't make any acknowledgement of his existence as he stands there, suffering, shivering, looking like he wants to be swallowed whole by the earth.  
  
Calmly, silently, he walks over behind Sherlock and goes to undoing his handcuffs. He lets the handcuffs clatter to the floor and walks to the cell door. The man had been so distracted it hadn't shut properly, and John is breathing a sigh of relief at the realization.  
  
No matter what happens now, they are going to get out.  
  
Sherlock still hasn't moved, and now his arms are crossed in front of him as he stares at the floor, and John has never seen him look so defeated.  
  
John steels himself and rolls his shoulders back, preparing to go into a battle as he turns. "Come on," he urges, "we're not dying in here." Sherlock nods, sullenly, and makes his way towards John without making eye contact.  
  
Escaping the cell is the easy part. Escaping the building is what proves to be a challenge. The walls are worn and tattered, leaving the impression of hopelessness, and the hallways themselves are built like mazes, and John isn't sure there's an easy way out.  
  
Panic only sets in when heavy, frantic footsteps echo down the hall. John swirls around, staring at the four different pathways he can take, and he isn't even sure which direction the footsteps are coming from. One look at Sherlock tells him he's in the same state. "Where -"  
  
Before he can finish, Sherlock is shooing him off and shouting, "Just go!"  
  
John spins and runs off to the right, his feet pounding against the concrete, sending echoes down the corridor as he searches for a way out. Near the end, he spots a staircase leading up to an old, decaying wooden door, and he heads straight for it. He zooms up the stairs and barges his way out, and instantly, his feet are on grassy land. He doesn't stop, though. For a good two minutes, he's running before he finally comes to a halt. He turns, panting. "Hey Sher-"  
  
An explosion rocks the area and sends John almost toppling to the ground from the force, and Sherlock is nowhere to be found.  
  
John doesn't even think before he reacts. With his stomach doing flips, he doesn't have _time_ to think as he starts running again. For him, he's always running. "Sherlock!" He runs through the darkness screaming his name, the cold winter air stinging his lungs with every intake of breath. Alongside him, the run down building he had just escaped is up in flames, the burning fire raging into the sparkling night sky as the old brick becomes engulfed.  
  
John can't focus on that, because no, not again, not _now._  
  
A tall, silhouette catches the corner of his eye, and John stops, the momentum from his speed nearly making him stumble over himself.  He finds Sherlock, face illuminated orange from the hot flames, eyes widened and searching endlessly like a terrified, wounded animal. A rush of sweet, sweet relief fills John's veins as he runs to him. "Sherlock!"   
  
"John!"  
  
John slams into him and wraps his arms around his neck tightly. He nuzzles his face against Sherlock's shoulder as long arms pull him in closer. "Thank God," he whispers over and over again as sirens begin blaring in the background.  
  
_We made it._

John's heart is threatening to burst out of his chest, the adrenaline still fresh in his veins. _We made it_ , he keeps telling himself, _we're alive._ And they were close, so close and... John shoos away the thought as his hands slide up into Sherlock's hair. He moves his head backwards just so, drinking in Sherlock's face in its entirety.  
  
They end up at a stalemate as their world comes to a screeching halt, and John can't help but to smile. Everything he's ever wanted is right here in his arms, staring back at him shyly, endearingly. John's hands slide to Sherlock's angled face and cup his jaw just so, and this is it.   
  
John can practically feel Sherlock's eyelashes fluttering against his skin in surprise, as he leans in, their noses bumping as they reach the point of no return. John presses a chaste, gentle kiss to Sherlock's soft lips, one that says, ' _I'm here, I'm here_.'   
  
The lights from the emergency vehicles are flashing on on them now. John pulls away a fraction, and Sherlock's eyes are wide and unblinking, and his face is stark still, in a state of shock. Lovingly, John reaches up and brushes a bit of Sherlock's curls away from his face. "You okay?"  
  
All Sherlock can manage is a nod as his tongue sweeps out over his lower lip.  
  
Before they know it, they're being separated again, forced into the custody of policemen with a myriad of questions.  
  
John is still talking to a group of officers near midnight as his phone chimes.  
  
_\- Where are you?_  
  
He types out a quick reply against the officers protesting.  
  
_Still at the Yard._  
  
He's just finishing up when it chimes again.  
  
_\- Come home._  
  
As he's walking out the doors into the freezing December air, he sends his reply.  
  
_On my way._

* * *

He doesn't know what's going to happen, and he finds his heart racing as he reaches Baker Street.    
  
221B is silent and dark. He finds Sherlock in the bedroom, sharply silhouetted against the moonlight bleeding in through the blinds. He's fumbling with his fingers and instantly freezes the moment John comes into the room.  
  
John pauses before he takes another step, crossing the invisible line of no man's land before he makes his way to Sherlock. They stand a mere foot away from each other in the silence, as neither of them can seem to bring themselves to utter a single syllable. After everything they've gone through, what is there to say, really?  
  
A tentative hand reaches out to cup John's jaw. The pale moonlight filters into the room in horizontal lines, casting shadows over Sherlock's face as he moves in closer, so slowly that John wonders if he's scared. He realizes that yes, he probably is, and it's okay.  
  
He's a bit scared, too.  
  
Sherlock kisses him so _achingly tenderly_ , and there are no dazzling fireworks to be displayed behind his eyes as it happens. Instead, it feels like a piece of a massive, complicated puzzle has finally been eased into place after years of frustration. Sherlock's other hand cups the other side of John's jaw, and John's hands immediately gravitate towards his hair, threading his fingers through wild curls.  
  
Sherlock's lips are soft and hesitant, and he's so _gentle._  Carefully, John is is nibbling at Sherlock's bottom lip in permission, and it all goes too quickly as John is licking his way into Sherlock's mouth, holding him tightly, but it's never close enough.  
  
Sherlock lets out a deep, guttural moan and _oh, God_.   
  
They're breathing quickly, and John's stumbling backwards onto the bed, bringing Sherlock down on top of him. He kicks off his shoes and socks with a bit of a struggle as he slides his hands down Sherlock's back, groaning as Sherlock's mouth is nearly fused to his.  
  
Suddenly, Sherlock is pulling away, and they're both left panting, their breath caressing each other's skin. "John," he pants, "I er..." John reaches upwards and lets his knuckles graze along one of his flushed cheeks. "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing."  
  
John blinks, and closes his mouth into a line. He swallows. "Is this what you want?"  
  
Sherlock closes in on him, and John feels his heart stutter as he whispers against his lips, "You're all I've ever wanted."  
  
They are rolling, squirming, and pressing against each other as they struggle their clothes loose. John rolls on top of Sherlock and pulls himself upwards, sitting astride him. When he pins his wrists down and Sherlock's eyes widen in hunger, John moves their hips together and moans at the pressure between them. He leans down and presses heated, fervent kisses along Sherlock's long neck, absolutely covering every inch of his body with his lips as he reaches his chest. Beneath him, Sherlock is moaning, canting his hips upward as he lets John just take control.  
  
John is yanking Sherlock's shirt open by the buttons when he stops and pulls away, rocking back on his knees as though he's been burned.  
  
Sherlock's brow lowers in confusion as he perches himself up on his elbows. "What's the matter? John?"  
  
 Sherlock's shirt is splayed open, and the dark pink, circular scar in the middle of his chest is jumping out at him, reopening the fresh wounds that Mary has left on them both. He finds his breathing escalting in a near panic as he stares at it. "I almost - she -"  
  
Sherlock follows his line of vision and immediate sits up, John still sitting astride his lap. He places his hands on John's hips, holding him steady as he begins whispering, "It's alright."  
  
John shakes his head in disbelief as a heat prickles at his eyes. "I thought you were gone, again and again I thought -"  
  
Sherlock's hands move to his face. "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere."  
  
It's a little hard to believe, that.  It had taken them so long to get to this point, and at what cost? Separation, heartbreak, and death plagued them, and it's hard to believe that Sherlock won't just slip from his hands and disappear forever. Sherlock is holding him close now, their foreheads touching as Sherlock strokes a comforting line along his cheeks with his thumbs, but John can't bear to look at him, just in case his fears come true. He closes his eyes. "We've lost so much time," he croaks.  
  
Sherlock's own voice betrays him, trembling as he whispers, "We have time, we have time."  
  
He doesn't know who presses forward, but soon they're kissing again, aching and desperate as hot tears escape both of their eyes.  
  
They're both hopelessly grasping at each other, practically melted into one as they move in rhythm, but it's still not enough. John bites at his shoulder and kisses his way down Sherlock's ticklish ribs before taking Sherlock in his mouth. He practically whimpers, throwing his head back, whispering John's name like it's the most precious thing on this planet, and John never wants it to end.  
  
When John climbs back up his body, Sherlock grabs both of their erections in his overly large hands and _God, this isn't going to last long_ , John thinks. Soon enough, both of Sherlock's hands are absolutely clawing at him, leaving long, raised scratches down his back, and it just makes John want _more_ as he takes both of them in one hand, rocking them both on the bed.  
  
It's years worth of pining, of loss, of heartbreak, of hope, and of tension from both of them that finally bubbles to the surface that night, releasing itself between them in the most beautiful of ways.  
  
It isn't long before Sherlock's heels are pressing into John's back and shouting out his name as his arms hold him incredibly tightly, unwilling to let him go. John follows immediately after and lets out a moan of pleasure into Sherlock's naked skin. They're both sated, panting, and covered in sweat when John shifts his head upwards and begins pressing tender kisses along Sherlock's jaw.  
  
He hopes that for tonight, this is enough. He showers him in kisses and Sherlock is soon returning the gesture, holding his head in his steady as he presses his lips along his skin over and over. More than anything, John wants to say it now, but he doesn't.  
  
Too many times they had confessed themselves in the darkness, leaving it there, never to speak of it again.  
  
But this is different.  
  
This love deserves the light of day.  
  
John awakes only a few hours later in the pale twilight of the morning. Sherlock is curled up at his side and holding him securely, his head resting over John's left shoulder. John runs his fingertips along the length of Sherlock's arm, causing him to shiver. Sherlock lifts his head and blinks his bleary eyes at him in confusion. "Sorry," he chuckles. "Go back to sleep."  
  
Sherlock hums in return. He presses a gentle kiss at John's twisted scar on his shoulder before he lays back down, pressing his nose into the crook of John's neck, his soft puffs of breath tickling his skin.  
  
John kisses Sherlock's temple and wraps his arms around him securely.  
  
_I'm in love with him._  
  
When John wakes again, he can feel the warmth of the golden morning sun across his naked body. There's a kind of peace to it, a bliss he's never felt before. When Sherlock nuzzles at his cheek, his chest bursts with warmth, realizing that no, this isn't a dream, this is real.  
  
Sherlock sighs in contentment. "Shame on you, John Watson," he says, a hint of a smirk in his voice.  
  
His voice is hoarse from sleep as he asks, "Shame on me?"  
  
"Mm. You, lying unclothed in my bed. What will the neighbors think?"  
  
A slow, encompassing smile spreads across John's face. "They'll think I'm in love with you."  
  
Sherlock goes worryingly silent. "Would they be right?"  
  
"They would."  
  
It all goes quiet for the while, save for the sounds of their calmed, even breathing. Sherlock nudges the tip of his nose against his neck, hiding his face there. "I meant to tell you," he murmurs. "I always have."  
  
"Tell me now," he insists, quietly. He waits nearly a minute, and when Sherlock doesn't make a move, John does. He hugs his body closer and presses his lips against Sherlock's forehead. The dark curls tickle the tip of his nose as he nuzzles down. "Sherlock," he says, "Whether you think it's an error or not, I..." He coughs. "I love you."  
  
Sherlock shakes his head furiously. "It's not," he utters, absolute.  
  
"Isn't it?"  
  
He shakes his head again before prying himself free of John's arms. He props himself up on one elbow, his eyes narrowed and his lips drawn inward in thought, like John was the greatest mystery he was about to unravel. "I... " he trails off, worrying the sheets between his fingers.  
  
It looks like Sherlock is in a losing battle with himself, and John sighs. "It's alright, you don't -"  
  
"I love you," he blurts out. His eyes are frightened, as they should be, saying the words kept inside for so long. Sherlock leans in closely and cups John's face with his free hand. His gaze is lovingly tender in the morning sun, his bright eyes taking him in, softly. His hair is sticking out in every which way and he's practically radiating with warmth. He leans down, letting their foreheads touch just so. He stokes a thumb across John's cheek and lowers his voice to a near whisper. "Loving you is not a mistake," he murmurs, "and to be loved by you is an honor."  
  
John has never witnessed something so beautiful in his life.  
  
He absolutely beams at him. A huge piece of his life has finally fallen into place, and he's bursting at the seams with joy at he gazes at Sherlock's blushing face. He quickly reaches up and pulls Sherlock down, pressing a hard, closed mouth kiss to his lips.  
  
After, Sherlock curls up to him again, and John lets his fingers dance teasingly along his skin. "Where do we go from here?"  
  
"Back to sleep," Sherlock replies.  
  
Mirth plays upon John's lips. "No, seriously."  
  
"I am serious," he insists, sleepily. "Quite serious."  
  
He doesn't know where they're headed, or where they'll end up, but with Sherlock by his side, there are no impossibilities.

* * *

**Update**  
  
_I've got news, but I won't really say anything on here._  
  
_I'm doing okay, though. More than okay, really._  
  
_Today is a good day. Christmas day, in fact. I'm here with the two most_  
_important people in my life, the snow is still fresh outside, and later I may_  
_take my little girl out in it. May teach her how to throw snowballs._  
  
_Preferably at Sherlock._  
  
_That's all I can say for now. Just know that I'm okay. We're all okay._  
  
_We're brilliant._  
  
\-----  
I'm so happy for you!  
Mrs. Hudson  
  
Cheers!  
Mike Stamford  
  
Great news x  
Molly Hooper  
  
Fantastic xx  
Harry Watson  
  
I don't really think it qualifies as "news."  
Everyone has thought so from day one.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
Shut up, Sherlock  
John Watson  
  
Make me.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
Oh, I will.  
John Watson  
  
Is that a promise?  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
You're ridiculous  
John Watson  
  
You love it.  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
:)  
John Watson  
\-----

**Author's Note:**

> When I started, this was meant to be a short little thing... Which obviously did not turn out to be the case.  
> P.S. - I gave her the name Olivia is in reference to Olivia Flaversham from The Great Mouse Detective!  
> P.P.S. - The song playing while they dance is, "Can't Help Falling In Love" by, you guessed it, Elvis.  
> At any rate, I hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as well, my url is findawaytoshine :)
> 
> (One more note - a sequel to this is in the works! Thank you all so much for your kind words!)
> 
> ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ UPDATE 1-15-2017  
> So I know I meant to make a sequel to this, and the story HAS been in my head for two and a half years. Unfortunately, life got in the way. BUT. After seeing The Final Problem tonight, I've made a vow to myself and my friends for sanity's sake. I'm going to write a fix it fic for S4 and incorporate what was going to be the sequel to this story into that one. Stay tuned!


End file.
